


Waning Moon

by AkitsuneLune



Series: Warriors Kingdoms [4]
Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Bluestar's paranoia, Cloudpaw being a little shit, Cloudtail POV, Domestic FireSand, Established Relationship, Evil!Oliver, F/M, Minor Character Death, SANDSTAR - Freeform, Sandstar AU, Sandstorm POV, The AU no one was brave enough to tackle, The Prophecies Begin: Book 4: Rising Storm, narcissistic parents, or think of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 108,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27303292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkitsuneLune/pseuds/AkitsuneLune
Summary: The queen is shattered. The heroine takes the wheel. The disgraced ex-captain stalks Thundria, preparing his revenge. And the half-breed fights to keep his head above water, caught between a world someone else chose for him and another of which he knows nothing. Fantasy AU of Rising Storm. Rated T for colourful vocabulary. (Book 4 of Warriors Kingdoms: The Prophecies Begin)
Relationships: Brightheart/Cloudtail (Warriors), Cloudtail & Firestar (Warriors), Dustpelt & Sandstorm (Warriors), Ferncloud & Cloudtail, Firestar/Sandstorm (Warriors), Sandstorm & Whitestorm
Series: Warriors Kingdoms [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617727
Comments: 60
Kudos: 49





	1. Prologue and Allegiances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> My name is Akila and I am the author of Warriors Kingdoms, the now 4-book saga of Fantasy AU fanfiction of the first arc of Warriors. What a ride, eh? Welcome to the fourth book, Waning Moon, the AU of Rising Storm.  
> This book will follow Samn and Clowd as they navigate Thundria with Sir Cawle exiled and Samn promoted to captain. If you’re wondering who/what all those are, I advise you to begin with Into the Fire and catch up with the whole AU. It’ll only take one feverish bad decision from 2-6 am, if you’re slow.  
> Finally, before we get started, I’d like to send an enormous thank you to Ice, my spectacular, tireless, and brilliant beta reader. Let’s not dwell on what this would look like without your help.
> 
> Alright! Here we go, you know the drill, allegiances and prologue. Please enjoy.

** CHARACTERS **

** Kingdom of Thundria **

Queen Bluelianna Star—Tall woman with long, gray-blue hair streaked with silver and blue eyes. (Bluestar)

Captain of the guard: Samn Schorme—Lanky, strawberry blonde-haired woman with greenish-gray eyes. (Sandstorm)

Squire: Briatte

Court Healer: Yllowei Fennen—old woman with frizzy gray hair and a flat face, formerly of the kingdom of Shodawa. (Yellowfang)

Novitiate: Cindra—Very short, chubby woman with gray hair and blue-gray eyes. (Cinderpaw)

Knights:

Whit Strommer—Tall, white-haired man with hazel eyes. (Whitestorm)

Darriek Styrp—Slick man with gray and black streaked hair and hazel eyes. (Darkstripe)

Liang Teyl—Thin, young man with long blonde hair with streaks of black and blue eyes. (Longtail)

Squire: Sewif

Rynnin Wynnd—Short, wiry man with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. (Runningwind)

Mauzian Fyrra—Wiry, spry woman with short, light brown hair. (Mousefur)

Squire: Thorrin

Fiyr Harte—Tall, skinny ginger-haired man with bright green eyes. (Fireheart)

Squire: Clowd

Duss Peyelt—Short man with dark brown hair and amber-brown eyes. (Dustpelt)

Brakken Fere—Brown-haired man with brown eyes. (Brackenfur)

Squire: Faern

Frostialla Fuor—Tall, beautiful, long white-haired woman with bright blue eyes. (Frostfur)

Brindellia Faise—Pretty, chubby woman with creamy brown-blonde hair and green eyes. (Brindleface)

Ladies of the court: (Pregnant or raising children)

Willowamina Peilte—Graceful, ash-blonde haired woman with long limbs. (Willowpelt)

Goldanna Flourer—Gorgeous, golden-blonde haired woman with dark eyes. (Goldenflower)

Speikall Tiall—Short woman with oddly specked long hair that she keeps in a braid, stern hazel eyes. (Speckletail)

Squires: (Training to be knights)

Sewif—Skinny, short boy with black and white streaked hair and hazel eyes. (Swiftpaw)

Thorrin—Lanky boy with golden-brown hair and pale blue eyes. (Thornpaw)

Briatte—Short girl with orange hair streaked with white, and blue eyes. (Brightpaw)

Clowd—Very tall boy with broad shoulders, pale skin, bright blue eyes, and downy white hair. (Cloudpaw)

Faern—Short, chubby girl with brownish-gray hair and pale green eyes. (Fernpaw)

Elders:

Heff Tyle—Tall, broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair and an arm missing. (Halftail)

Samal Eyre—Wizened old man with gray hair. (Smallear)

Wonn Eie—Short, wise woman with graying hair and an eye-patch. (One-eye)

Dapplianne Tayel—Once-beautiful tall woman with long, shiny dark brown hair with golden-blonde highlights. (Dappletail)

Partch Peld—Small man with black and white hair and hazel eyes. (Patchpelt)

** Kingdom of Wynnd **

****

King Tahliorius Star—Tall man with long, black and white hair. (Tallstar)

Captain of the Guard: Daede Futt—Wiry, tall man with black hair and a twisted foot. (Deadfoot)

Court Healer: Barrik Feas—Short dark-haired man. (Barkface)

Knights:

Meude Kelaw—Broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. (Mudclaw)

Squire: Vebbe

Tuoren Ayer—Tall, thin man with streaked brown hair. (Tornear)

Owen Newskar—Young man with sandy brown hair. (Onewhisker)

Squire: Georse

Roanin Brauc—Tall, young woman with gray hair. (Runningbrook)

Whytt Teala—Skinny, short woman with stark white hair. (Whitetail)

Ladies of the court: (Pregnant or raising children)

Ashra Fote—Tall, muscular gray-haired woman. (Ashfoot)

Marrani Flor—Short woman with brown, white, and red hair. (Morningflower)

** Kingdom of Rivier **

****

King Crukkedaro Star—Tall, broad-shouldered man with short brown hair. (Crookedstar)

Captain of the Guard: Leaparra Fore—Lean woman with curly golden hair and sharp amber-brown eyes. (Leopardfur)

Court Healer: Mede Frer—Short man with long brown hair. (Mudfur)

Knights:

Bellack Clah—Tall man with long black hair. (Blackclaw)

Stowen Feur—Broad-shouldered man with close-cropped gray hair and scars. (Stonefur)

Squire: Sheyd

Lowd Baley—Dark brown-haired man. (Loudbelly)

Squire: Zilfer

Garais Wesschar—Short, very muscular man with brown hair. (Grasswhisker)

Heffeigh Stape—Heavy-set man with long brown hair. (Heavystep)

Graie Sterrip—Short, chubby man with fluffy gray hair and yellowish-hazel eyes, formerly of the kingdom of Thundria. (Graystripe)

Ladies of the court: (Pregnant or raising children)

Meistya Feot—Muscular, plump woman with short gray hair and piercing blue eyes. (Mistyfoot)

Mahse Pelle—Plump woman with multi-coloured, streaked hair. (Mosspelt)

Elders:

Girai Paolle—Small, skinny, old woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. (Graypool)

** Kingdom of Shodawa **

King Naitienne Star—Thin, black-haired man with asthma. (Nightstar)

Captain of the Guard: Cinnier Faer—Thin, elderly gray-haired man. (Cinderfur)

Court Healer: Rannin Naos—Small man with pale, streaked hair and cloudy amber eyes. (Runningnose)

Knights:

Stoumpei Toile—Short, gray-haired man without a hand (Stumpytail)

Bellue Faet—Skinny, gray-haired young man. (Bluefoot)

Squire: Oke

Laitlte Cleud—Tiny man with dark brown hair. (Littlecloud)

Ladies of the court: (Pregnant or raising children)

Dawhnnea Clouhd—Small, brown-gold-haired woman. (Dawncloud)

Daerkki Follar—Black-haired woman. (Darkflower)

Elders:

Aish Faor—Thin, haggard old man with graying hair. (Ashfur)

** Outlanders, Mercenaries, and God-toys **

Ravne—Lanky man with messy black hair and one white stripe and blue eyes. (Ravenpaw)

Barrleigh—Tall, muscular man with black and white streaked hair and blue eyes. (Barley)

Princesca—Lean woman with unnatural brown and white hair, freckles, and brown eyes. (Princess)

Roche—Tall, thin, dark gray haired man. (Boulder)

Blayke Fouhte—Short, broad-shouldered man that always wears black boots and gloves to hide hideous burn scars from when he was a child, formerly of the kingdom of Shodawa. (Blackfoot)

Tigre Cawle—Enormous man with short-cropped brown hair and one amber eye, formerly of the kingdom of Thundria. (Tigerclaw)

Prologue.

Death sings in the trees.

According to the Shodawes legend, on the coldest day of winter, when the wind howls in the treetops and the frost runs deep in the earth, the spirits of all those that have walked the earth before return to flit through the trees, crying out for those they’ve left behind. The man outside can believe it; the air is almost thick with them. They smell like the rot emanating from the healer’s wing.

Med Rannin Naos of Shodawa had left the stifling healer’s wing to escape it, but he finds no respite in cold winter air. It is a dark night; clouds obscure the Starlaxi’s rank, and his healer instincts race ahead to find a second meaning in the innocuous weather.

_Perhaps even they have turned their backs on us._

He doesn’t blame them.

The hopelessness, the black, cold depths of despair that greets him when he turns to self-reflection is enough to make even their heavenly ancestors afraid of the future, he thinks. He’s certainly paralyzed with terror, knowing that tomorrow he will wake up and his court will be worse off, as it has been for months.

They have buried Sir Hiscare.

_Lady Fennen’s brother,_ he remembers with a pulse of sadness. _I will have to tell her the news at the winter solstice._ If he is able to leave his court for the night, that is. _Though what good am I here?_ he wonders. _I cannot help them. They are dying, and I cannot help them._

The list in his head, the one that ranks his court from sickest to strongest, runs through his mind again. Over and over, the same names, all spiraling in a loop of death. One by one, they are dying, and he does not know what to do. This sickness is from the vampires, or so he theorized, but the garlic he is using seems about as effective as a pinch of flour in the wind and a prayer to some four-faced deity, like the villagers would do.

He takes another deep breath of the cold, foul air, and then turns back to re-enter the castle. His joints are beginning to stiffen in the icy air and his lungs haven’t cleared the way he hoped, so he may as well return to this fortress of death. Perhaps he can soothe their suffering with his presence, if not cure them. _What a cruel joke, to be in the pink of health while my court dies around me._ He turns, casting his gaze up to the stars once more. _Have you preserved me to save them? Nothing I seem to do is helping._

The Starlaxi has given him an illness without a cure. It goes against everything Lady Fennen taught him, everything he learned about them from before he could even speak. _They give us only burdens we can bear._ Misery clogs his throat for a heartbeat. _But this is unbearable. They are dying! Please help me._

When the clouds don’t part, no star twinkling with the promise of a better future, he turns around, utterly defeated, and retreats back into the castle.

The acrid smell of sweat and disease is even stronger in the trapped air, but his allergies mute it. He is thankful, for once. He makes his way to the healer’s wing, the familiarity of the shadows and small dividing-room failing to comfort him the way it usually does.

It is empty; everyone is either too sick to be anywhere but on a care-bed, or tucked away in their rooms, trying to sleep through the nightmare. He alone is wide awake, witness to the slow, inevitable extinction of his court. Too many deaths. Too soon after the populations of the courts had faltered; they’d evaded the infanticide rates by having more, stronger, children at once by the Blessing.

It was a shame his king could not provide a new Blessing to salvage the court. He remembers the King in the Night, and the power that rippled deep within his pale, muscled skin. He remembers the Broken King, and the muted stars that were buried in his dark, dark gaze. When he looks into Naitienne’s eyes, he sees the fog of sickness, the glossiness of tears for the dead, but no stars and no power.

Rannin doesn’t blame him anymore. He is just as powerless as his king. He has all his life-force, certainly, but he has mimicked every life-force he has ever seen in an effort to heal his court. The last thing he thinks to try is that of the Thundrian novitiate. She will be receiving her full name soon. Anger thrums through him, thinking of his old mentor and her new novitiate. _They sit in the trees, safe and thriving, while we die._

He cannot stay angry for long, though; he knows Lady Fennen’s life-force cannot help him because he’s already tried it. Claiming the sickness of the king stopped him from being able to bury the dead, and healthy Naitienne was about as useless as the alternative. He gave his sickness back within the hour. But perhaps she could guide him if she was here—or perhaps she would be just as useless as he feels. _I wonder how many times everything spiralled out of control and I never knew because of how sure I was she would be able to fix it._ He casts his gaze to the shadowed entrance of the healer’s wing, thinking about the few healthy members of the court.

_I need a novitiate._ It’s the least of his concerns, but he can’t help thinking it. _I’m not getting any younger. Someone has to succeed me._ Especially if he gets sick. He’s been lucky so far, but it doesn’t last forever, not when it comes to him. If he dies, then Shodawa is truly lost.

“Rannin,” a voice croaks out of the darkness.

The king sounds worse. Rannin moves to his side anyway, peeling away the sweat-soaked sheet when the king paws at it feebly. His forehead is apple-red and shining with the sweat that wetted the sheet in his hands, and his thin black hair is greasy and limp against his skin. Rannin brushes it aside anyway.

King Naitienne coughs, and then blinks open glassy eyes, black and round like a puppy’s, then murmurs, “You left…”

“Just to get some air, Your Highness,” he assures him, disposing of the sheet and hurrying to the back of the wing to fetch a fresh one. They’re running out. No one has done the laundry in weeks. _Another low priority._ He needs to escape the sight of his king. Not when he looks like _that_ , so weak and helpless like a wounded animal. _All of Shodawa is a wounded animal right now._ He wonders how long it will be before the other courts smell blood. The copper king in the west, the blue-eyed eagle in the south, and the ancient, hungry man in the east. _They will circle us and pick our bones clean unless we can rally ourselves. Or at least hide our weakness._

“Rannin…” he croaks again.

He steels himself, then turns back. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“Surely—” he breaks himself off into a cough and then begins again. “Surely you can give me something for my throat. It feels scratchy and… raw.”

Raw is the right word. The king has been coughing up blood since his neck purpled with the illness. “Yes… I will get you something.”

He returns to the back of the wing. They have precious little medicine for coughs, but it is no cure. It only dulls the suffering—he knows that the depletion of it means they have a finite number of peaceful deaths left, which is the most he dares to hope for. The rest of them will be dragged into the Starlaxi, coughing up their throats and clawing at their necks, trying to itch, trying to breathe, trying to rip open that clogged passage. He has had dark thoughts for four nights. _Tuck the cough medicine deep in the back of some unused cupboard, wait to get sick, and then to make your own journey to the stars as peacefully as possibly,_ his worst, weakest parts urge him under the cover of a sleepless night.

He knows he would not be going to the stars if he gave in to such selfishness. Instead, he takes the pouch of hard, round packs of ground powder from off the dusty, bare shelves. He will dissolve it into hot water for his king. They ran out of tea six days ago.

Rannin draws to the king’s side once more with the steaming mug of water in hand. The smell is sharp and unpleasant, but if the king complains then perhaps Rannin will bend to his selfish urges anyway.

He’s done it since he was a child.

_If I can beat Daire to the solstice pavilion, then Lady Fennen will finally show me how to fight. If this medicine works on father, then Mother will let me have extra white-cherries with breakfast._ The universe doesn’t usually pay attention to his bargaining. Daire is very sick. He thinks his brother will die in a few days. It bounces off the hollowness of his heart with a dull thud.

“Thank you,” King Naitienne whispers, taking the cup in shaking heads.

Rannin recoils from him, suddenly feeling short of breath again. He leaves the healer’s wing silently, the king watching him with big eyes at the man’s sudden departure, and once more feels winter’s kiss when he passes through the main doors. His cheeks don’t sting yet. He finds the cold clears his nose this time.

He looks into the pine trees. A worn path leads out directly in front of him and he follows it with his mind for a moment, imagining the turns he could take to get to a village, or a field, or a border, or… a garden. He’s about to step forward, to walk into the night on foot in nothing more than his draped purple healer’s robes, but then he freezes as a dim orange glow lights the ground.

His gaze snaps up instinctively to find the source of the light— _a torch? Some kind of enormous firefly?_ —and his breath catches in his throat.

The moon is shrouded in dark, thick gray clouds and the night _should_ be dark, but those clouds are lit from underneath in a blaze of saffron-orange and yellow as what looks like a fireball careens across the sky. It’s distant enough that he has a moment to study it before it disappears.

It’s bright—so gloriously vibrant that the rest of the world seems colourless around him, utterly overshadowed by the vermilion, marigold, copper that spray like sparks from the trail of the ball of light. He shields his eyes, stumbling back, and squints closer. It’s not round, he realizes, but the form is surrounded by such a brilliant halo that it’s difficult to make out.

Just as it begins to finish its journey across the cloud, he realizes what it is.

_A phoenix._

Once he knows to look for it, he can spot the white-hot edge that makes the curve of massive wings, the feathers spread behind like the core of a fire, like molten glass, like a second second sun in the night sky. He is breathless. It is glorious.

And he knows the Starlaxi has spoken at last.

_A second sun in the night. A blaze of glory out of the darkness._

Hope is unleashed in his chest and he is dizzy with the euphoria of answered prayers. _We are saved. We will rise to rule all the kingdoms._

He continues to stare up into the sky long after the phoenix is gone. The night is no longer cold, the air no longer heavy with illness, but sizzling and warm with the promise of summer and glory.

There is a certain lingering feeling in him, though, that prevents him from whirling around and waking the entire court with his giddy cries. A feeling of doubt, perhaps, that it will not all be tied up so neatly. There are bodies in the ground, he knows that. By now, even if King Naitienne _did_ have all…

They’re not coming back.

The Starlaxi’s promise of a glorious future for Shodawa won’t undo that.

More than that, though, something about the sky bothers him. The clouds are all dark, certainly, but that blazing path the phoenix cut through them minutes before seems especially so. Perhaps those clouds are pregnant with storms, but they don’t make him think of thundering rain.

No. The clouds look charred. Blackened, dead, and ruined.

_There will be a price,_ he thinks, wondering if his thoughts are guided by the Starlaxi or his own paranoia. Or perhaps after so many years, he really has learned that no one’s luck lasts. _But ours has to turn. Perhaps we won’t pay it._

He turns back to the castle at last, satisfied that he has seen all the Starlaxi needed to show him. Once more, the smell floods his blocked nose. _This won’t last,_ he finally thinks. It is the first time he has dared hope in a long, long time. _Shodawa’s day is coming, and it will ride on the back of the phoenix of Shodawa. Whoever or whatever that will be._

Then as he draws to the side of his ailing king, he thinks, _This is not our future._ With the promise of fiery triumph so near, he cannot help looking at this weak, sweaty thing and thinking, _He is no phoenix._

He takes the empty cup from the table he dragged over for the king. Unanswered letters from villagers are scattered over it. The king has not sent out a patrol for weeks, and Sir Faer is hardly in a condition to do better. _Sir Faer will die before the king,_ Rannin thinks. _Then the king will be too weak to name a successor. Then the king will die, his own ailing life-force unsupported by the Blessings that belonged to that tyrant, and then…_ Rannin casts his gaze to the window. _Then the phoenix will come, and we will crown him in fire and sulfur._

He looks at the mug in his hand. _If this mug breaks, it is true._

Then he drops the mug and doesn’t flinch as the shards shoot across the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please please please leave a comment, bookmark, kudos, all that good stuff, and COMMENT to feed me. I’ve been writing this for four years now, and as silly as it might be, it’s important to me, and I really hope you tell me if you enjoyed!  
> Next chapter will be up on November 5th. If you’re starving for AU in that time, cmon over to warriors-kingdoms dot tumblr dot com and hang out!
> 
> As always, I’m  
> ~Akila


	2. Chapter 1 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Special thank you to everyone who left a kudos or a comment. *Mwah* You fuel my writing blitzes.
> 
> Also, special welcome to all of my fanfiction.net readers. I hate that website. Enjoy your stay.
> 
> Alright! Welcome back to Samn’s POV. Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Samn

The glass pot of lip colour makes an unsatisfying _thunk_ as it hits the ground. I ignore it and stare at my face in the glass

It’s the second time we’ve tried this; last time was my knight’s ceremony. I was bursting with so much excitement at the time that I let her doll me up how she liked and strolled out in front of the court, savouring their stares. But now, sitting alone, I don’t feel that confidence.

I look at the person in the mirror and try not to feel sick.

Lady Flourer said the green eye paint would bring out my own olive eyes, but they look watery and gray compared to the shiny, beetle-green shade on my eyelids. I grab the wet white rag, stained with all manner of failed attempts, and wipe at it furiously. It doesn’t all come off, and leaves me with the very appealing look of two mostly-healed black eyes. A frustrated scream lurks in my belly, but I don’t want Mom rushing back in, so I just grit my teeth and bend over to see if the lip colour pot is broken.

It is. Pink slime leaks around the shards of glass.

I turn my eyes back to the face in the mirror and feel the same urge to throw up. _I look like a bad painting._ I don’t look like myself. Fiyr’s not going to recognize me. I wipe my face again, scrubbing harder than I should, and drop it once I’ve got an angry red flush going on.

_This is stupid._ I glance at my bed, where that stiff, frilly thing that Mom pulled out of the closet waits to wrap me in lace and itchy cotton. It’s the same rich emerald colour that is now smeared on the rag beside me. I stand suddenly, almost knocking over my stool, and start pacing. _I don’t want to wear a dress. I don’t want to paint my face._ No _one would respect me if they saw me like that._

Or maybe they’ll judge me for looking like a man at my own Union.

I feel like I’m going to war. I tap out a nervous rhythm on _Sandstorm_ ’s hilt. I wish I could talk to Fiyr, but I know the rules better than he does; Sir Strommer had to quickly explain them to him after we announced it. I go to my window and watch the snow fall. Snowstar’s Eve has come a little late this year.

I’m agonized by how slow time seems to be passing. Sir Cawle was exiled three and a half years ago. Three and a half long years, fourteen seasons, forty-two months, and countless days. Being captain has required getting better at arithmetic than I ever thought I’d need to be. It doesn’t feel like it’s been long enough.

Things have changed, that’s certain. Sarola, Rhane, and Siotos shot up from chubby toddlers to a mischievous band of seven year olds, Goldanna’s son and daughter have moved from burbly noises to comprehensible words, though no sign of a demonstration yet from either, and Fiyr… I sigh to myself, looking away from the snowy scene outdoors. Fiyr has changed. He’s still the same man in his heart, I know he is, but losing Graie has… taken something from him. His smiles are a little slower and he doesn’t laugh often. I often see him staring into space, lost in thought. I don’t need to ask who he’s thinking about.

Cindra finished the last of her noviacy a few months ago and was named Lady Plait at the equinox. Faern was made Sir Fere’s squire. Briatte has transformed from the gap-toothed little girl that I was told to turn into a knight of Thundria into a sixteen-year-old that can hold her own against Sewif, or Thorrin, or whoever she’s sparring with that day. She still can’t really cook and panics a bit around Goldanna’s toddlers, but I know that she’ll be forced to learn all those things the second people start calling her a lady, so I focus on the important stuff.

The more things change, the more things stay the same. The queen has not _fixed_ herself, not exactly, but we’ve found a system that works. Sometimes I see flashes of the woman that I idolized so much, when a little fire returns to her blue gaze or when she makes a wry comment, but for the most part, the real Queen Bluelianna has retreated deep inside herself and is replaced with a pale imitation.

But I’m not supposed to concern myself with captain of the guard things today, right? I look at my bedside table. There’s a stack of papers there, mostly correspondence with the dumb-as-nails mayor of Cumulus. Lately I’ve been dumping all the work I can’t get done during the day onto my bedside table to give myself something to do when I can’t sleep. Before the queen’s productivity dropped away into almost nothing, I had books there instead.

I didn’t do much reading as a kid, unless it was that book of battle manoeuvres… _Wish I could go back and tell little Samn how much more there is to life than being better at sword-fighting than Duss._ But ever since the captain’s duties have forced me into the library more and more, I’ve started to actually enjoy sitting down for an hour or two and drinking in some old story of Wer blood feuds or the origins of the holidays or something. Sometimes I find books that Rozel Tali wrote, and I feel an odd comfort, like she’s still here in a way.

That is, until the queen stopped keeping up with her duties and my free time vanished like hot steam in winter air. Slowly, she stopped handing me completed orders and started asking me to handle it. Sometimes she just stares into space. I had to learn on job, mostly, and probably lost a lot of Thundria’s goodwill when I made a fool of myself in front of the leaders of villages, not to mention the difficulty of trying to look competent in front of the court so they don’t notice just how much is wrong with the queen. Stuff is still piling up, unresolved, but I’m completely focused on keeping Thundria’s head above water; the flooded gorge, the unbalanced trade deals, the unmonitored outer forests will just have to wait. The only people who really know how much has fallen onto my shoulders are Lady Faise and Sir Strommer.

It meant more late nights, less time with Fiyr, more training sessions with Briatte handed off to some other knight, and lots of other smaller sacrifices. My hygiene’s suffered, I know, when I look back in the mirror and see the state of my brown skin. Lady Flourer and Lady Faise scrubbed a few pounds of dirt off me this morning, but the blackheads and red bumps don’t get wiped away so easily. My hair’s properly clean for the first time in a while, and Mom lent me her strawberry-scented soap that she keeps for special occasions, so I’m not looking like a complete orc for my own damn Union at least. It curls in strawberry-blonde, feathery furls at my neck.

But all those sacrifices have added up, I reflect, trying to keep some semblance of a positive outlook. I can picture Thundria’s stores down to the last thread of a squire’s uniform or crumb of bread. I know exactly how long a drum of oil will last, and I know exactly how long it’ll take our supplier to produce another. I’m not great at handling people, I know, and I shoot another regretful look at the pages of correspondence on my table, but most of Thundria’s accepted me at least.

I look out the window again at Thundria’s snowy treetops. _I’m not ready to be queen. But I’m going to be a damn good captain of the guard if it means two hours of sleep a night._

The snow reminds me of what today is for and I sit down again. _I said I wasn’t going to think about captain of the guard stuff._ One last look in the mirror. _Fiyr won’t be disappointed or surprised if I don’t paint my face in a bunch of bright colours,_ I decide. _He knows who I am. He’s not Uniting with my face._

We still have an hour before the ceremony, and we agreed to do the truth-telling just before it, which gives me at least forty minutes to micro-manage the court. I leave my room, ignoring the dress, and head down into the throne room.

Boughs of holly and spiky juniper are nestled in the rafters and line the walls. Lady Flourer moves along them slowly, pale purple flowers blooming from the juniper as she moves her hand across them. My mother pulls open the front doors, allowing the swirling snow outside to suck some of the torches’ warmth out, and a heartbeat later a giant eagle swoops through, bunches of holly in its yellow beak.

Candles cover every available surface, including the floor in some places. The dais is ringed with them, and I can see the warm glow emanating from the dining hall. Lady Tiall is shouting orders from the kitchen, where a deliciously fatty, spiced, roasted smell is wafting from. _Looks like everything’s running smoothly._ I still have to urge to go rearrange some of the holly, or join Lady Tiall in commanding her platoon of squires, but I resist as Sir Strommer comes up to me.

“Well, Lady Schorme,” he says with a friendly clap on the back. “Your Union day. Nervous? Regretting it all?”

“Why aren’t you with Fiyr?” I ask.

“Duss wanted to talk to him privately,” he answers and I scowl.

“He’s not my father. If he’s threatening him or anything of the stupid-macho-man kind, I’ll—”

“Throw him out of the castle on his ear,” Sir Strommer finishes. I’ve found a bit of a catchphrase, and Sir Strommer apparently knows it well enough to see it coming. “No, I think he just wants to wish him luck.”

I make a doubtful face. Duss and I haven’t been as close as I might like lately— _Longer than lately, honestly,_ I think—but I hardly have time for my soon-to-be husband and my squire, so reconnecting with Duss is low on my list of priorities at the best of times. Usually he doesn’t even make it on.

“Are you planning on getting United in your uniform?” Sir Strommer asks dubiously, jerking a thumb at my crimson tunic, half-covered by all the furs I’ve bunched around my shoulders in an effort to keep the cold out.

I frown. “Does it look stupid?”

He laughs. “Not stupid, no, but it’s Snowstar’s Eve _and_ your Union. Everyone’s going to be dressed up. Don’t you want to wear something a little more… festive?”

My belly rumbles and I cast a wistful look toward the kitchen. _Why is he grilling me over this? I’m hungry._ “It’s this or that awful green affair that Mom dumped in my room.”

Sir Strommer makes a sympathetic noise, then cocks his head. “Actually, I might be able to offer a third option.”

“Oh?”

“Go to your room.” He shoos me back toward the staircase. “I’ll come up in a minute—I need to go get something.”

Still looking mournfully at the kitchen, I turn back around and scale the stairs, returning to the scene of my duel with cosmetics. I look at the mirror and the little tinctures and powders, feeling suddenly embarrassed, and have the urge to hide it all away in my drawers so that Sir Strommer doesn’t see how badly I failed to turn my face into a perfect picture of loveliness or whatever.

He comes back too soon for me to be able to shove everything under my bed, though, so I just turn and wait for his judgement.

“Here.” He shoves a sweetbun into my hands, the sticky honey immediately dribbling onto my fingers. “No one wants to get United on an empty belly.”

“We’re having a big meal afterward,” I protest. “I shouldn’t fill up on sweets.”

“You’re allowed to have _some_ fun,” he reminds me, snatching up the white rag on my dresser and ignoring the stains of lip colour and eye paint, before cleaning the honey off his own fingers. “Oh dear.”

His eyes have landed on the green dress.

“Exactly,” I grunt, finally noticing what’s tucked under one of his arms. “What’s that?” It looks like a big swath of red and off-white fabric, although I can see some yellow and gold patterning, which makes me think it’s not just a set of drapes or something. “Ceremonial wear?”

“I gave Fiyr mine,” he explains, depositing the new set of clothes onto my bed. “So I dug this up for you. They were your father’s.”

I almost choke on my sweetbun. “I… I didn’t know we kept them.”

“Your mother did,” he replies, spreading them out so I can get a good look at them.

The black pants are standard issue for Thundrians, and I don’t want to switch out of my own so I ignore those, interested more in the doublet and vest. The doublet is a long-sleeved shirt made of long strips of tightly-woven cream fabric, lined with red, and the vest is deep-maroon velvet with a long line of gold buttons running down the front. From that dividing line, intricate streaks of golden thread fan out and coalesce in a golden chain design around each shoulder.

“It’s… very nice,” I say, feeling a little uncomfortable suddenly, remembering that man who wore it.

“What’s wrong?” His brow wrinkles. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I do—I just—” My father’s face floats in my mind, perfectly unblemished and otherworldly, and I wince. “I’m not even half the man or captain he was.”

“Ah.” Sir Strommer puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “You shouldn’t worry yourself about that. Sir Tayle was just as human as the rest of us. He was a great captain, it’s true, but remember that everything you’ve heard is coloured with people’s fondness for him. He wasn’t perfect, just like you aren’t and I’m not. But he was a good captain, and so are you. You deserve to look good on your Union day, and I think he’d be happy to see you wearing it.”

I take another bite of the sweetbun, focusing on chewing so I don’t cry. “Thanks,” I mumble, still feeling inadequate compared to my father but knowing that Sir Strommer wouldn’t say it if he didn’t think it was true.

“Now come on! Put it on!” he exclaims.

“Let me finish my sweetbun!” I protest, holding the half-eaten sugary bread closer to my body like he might grab it. He sighs theatrically, and flops onto my bed, crushing the green dress. I chew slowly, savouring the nutmeg, honey, and walnuts, then pop the last bit in my mouth and wipe my hands on the now-very-dirty rag.

“Alright,” Sir Strommer says, hopping to his feet. “Leave on your undershirt. And you don’t have to change your pants, those are the same ones, just old.”

I peel the furs off from around my shoulders and lay them on the bed, then pull the red captain’s tunic over my head and drop it on my bed next to them. The winter chill immediately acquaints itself with my thinly-covered skin, so I grab the doublet quickly and with the help of Sir Strommer, slide my arms through it and bring it over my head. It’s heavier than the tunic, padded and segmented like some kind of tapestry rather than a proper piece of clothing, but it fits snugly around my shoulders. I swing my arms, testing the resistance of the fabric and Sir Strommer snorts at me.

“You’re getting United, not riding into battle,” he reminds me. “I’m sure they’re a bit stiff. They’ve been lying at the bottom of a closet for a few decades.”

I smooth down the strips of shirt, picking off a few bits of fuzz as I go. Then Sir Strommer holds the velvet vest open for me to loop my arms through. It’s warm and comfortably heavy as it settles over my torso. I find a golden rope hanging around its midsection and pull it tight, feeling pleasantly bundled up in the heavy fabrics. Despite Sir Strommer’s assertion about Unions and battles, I can’t help feeling like this wouldn’t be terrible for deflecting blows. It’s thicker than leather and you’d have to be swinging to hurt if your sword cut through it.

“How do I look?” I ask, spreading my arms and turning.

When I finish turning, he gives me a half-sad smile. “Just like your father.”

I snort.

“It’s true!” he claims. “Your hair’s shorter and your eyes are lighter but… but you really do look just like him, Samn.”

I feel a smile crook the side of my mouth and turn away before he can see that I’m pleased. I try to catch a look of the clothes in the mirror and the smile spreads all the way across my face. Maybe Goldanna was on to something; the maroon velvet and golden buttons actually do ‘bring out’ the colour of my hair, whatever that means. In the torchlight of my room, my hair gleams, gilding my head gold and red. I cut it recently, and it’s only barely starting to curl into the coils that it would make if it were longer, only long enough to just cover my ears and the nape of my neck.

“You think so?” I ask, still staring into the mirror.

“Definitely,” he confirms. “Aren’t you doing the truth-telling in a minute?”

I startle, remembering. “Oh shoot, yeah, I have to go.” I’m halfway to the door when I turn back, half-joking. “Any advice?”

He smiles and his eyes drift up to my ceiling as he thinks. I wonder what secrets he knows about my mom from their own truth-telling. “Do you already know what you’re going to tell him?”  
“Some,” I say. I’ve been anxious all week; coming up with three different things that Fiyr doesn’t know about me hasn’t been easy. Despite my weird squirehood, I’m not naturally secretive.

“Well then,” he shrugs, “just take it easy and remember why you’re getting United. If anything he says really surprises you, you can talk about it for as long as you like. We won’t start the Union without the guests of honour. Don’t keep us waiting too long, though, I’m already getting hungry.”

“Should’ve gotten yourself a sweetbun,” I tell him, then turn. “Alright. Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it. You two are inevitable,” he says with a smile, then waves me off.

As I’m leaving the knight’s wing, I consider his words. _Inevitable?_ In one way, I guess we kind of are. I certainly wasn’t planning on Uniting with Duss or Graie. _Graie._ Sadness prickles in my chest. _I wonder if he loved Fiyr._ After Ravne, I wouldn’t be surprised if he fell in love with another of his best friends. He wouldn’t say it aloud, I know that much. _And now he never can… I hope he’s doing okay in Rivier._ I brush thoughts of Graie away as I come to the library’s door and take a deep breath.

_Here we go._

I open the door to the small room and enter, then shut it behind me.

Fiyr is sitting in one of the reading chairs near the bookshelves. The Thundrian library isn’t as massive or grand as I’ve heard some of the others are, particularly Wynnd’s, but the books are packed tightly into the shelves and I don’t doubt that we have just as much in a smaller space. The braziers make me a little nervous; we had a fire about forty years ago and the elders had their hands full trying to replace everything. I’m sure some of the books that burned were too faint in their memories to be fully replaced. _But if a brazier falls, Fiyr can put it out,_ I remind myself.

“Hey,” I say.

He smiles when he sees me. It’s one of his new smiles, one where his face doesn’t quite light up and his mouth doesn’t split open into a giant grin it used to. But his lips curve and his eyes soften as they take in my clothing. I do the same to him; we’re dressed in the same style of ceremonial clothes, but his doublet and vest are both stark white, threaded with gold, and buttoned with round blue stones. I can imagine how dashing Sir Strommer would’ve looked in them. Fiyr’s hair is dark red from lack of sunlight and his freckles have mostly faded into his snowy complexion, dulling the contrast between the whiteness of his clothes and his skin.

“You look nice,” he says softly and I take a seat in the chair next to him.

“So do you.”

“I like this place,” he says, to break the silence if nothing else. “Haven’t been here in a long time.”

“Don’t you come in here with Clowd?”

“Yeah, but just to like… get a textbook.” He shrugs. “It’s different.”

I nod. “Um…”

He laughs at the tension, a short huff of air, and then says, “I don’t really know how to do this.”

I make a show of turning around to survey the shelves. “I’m sure there’s a book in here that could explain it. No, I’m joking, I know what to do. Didn’t Sir Strommer explain it to you?”

His forehead crinkles. “Sort of.”

“Well, stop me if you know this.” I lean back in the heavy leather chair, willing my muscles to unclench. _Remember why you’re doing this,_ Sir Strommer reminds me in my head. “The people getting United go off alone and tell each other three things that they haven’t told the other person. It’s meant to clear the air and make sure there aren’t any big secrets hanging over the Union.”

Fiyr nods. “I know that, I just… don’t really know how to start.”

“With your least scandalous one,” I suggest, forcing a laugh. _You don’t have any scandalous secrets, do you?_ “Or whatever.”

“Um…” He hesitates, then says, “I don’t like coffee. I just pretended to like it to impress Sir Cawle and then you used to get me a cup too and I never said anything.”

I blink. _Seems like a secret that wouldn’t exactly ‘hang over’ us, but okay…?_ “Well, I forgive you.”

He snorts. “Your turn.”

I breathe out, reaching for my prepared secrets. “I’m not a woman,” I finally admit to him. Things have fallen into place little by little over the past three and a half years, ever since I first said it aloud to Cindra. She’s helped me since then, searching through the archives of the past healers to find out everything she can about switch-souls. She says the Mer had a third gender and at the confirmation that it’s possible to be in between, I became all the more certain that I wasn’t just a man or a woman.

“Huh…?” Fiyr blinks.

I nod. “I was waiting to tell you for the longest time, and then we decided to get United and I figured the truth-telling was the best time to do it.”

His face is knitted with confusion and he finally tilts his head. “Are you a man?”

“No,” I say simply. “I’m kind of… both. It’s very hard to explain. Even I don’t understand altogether, but… I was a boy, and then I was a woman.” I shrug, trying not to let my worry show. “Is it a shock that it’s still a part of me?”

“I… I guess not,” he admits. “I had trouble seeing you as a girl after your knighting ceremony so maybe…”

Relief heats me like warm steam from a pump. _Does he understand?_ “Right.” I run my hand over my vest, smoothing down the fabric next to the buttons. “I… I couldn’t wear a dress today.”

“Like a switch-soul,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I… maybe I am one. I don’t know, I was never really sure I was a _real_ one, but… I don’t know. Now you know.”

He nods, absorbing it slowly, then says, “I guess I should be able to predict your fluctuating gender after the knight ceremony.”

I remember it, blushing, and laugh. “Yeah, that… wasn’t really my doing. I’m glad I got to try being both, I guess.” It’s something that I’ve wondered about occasionally, though I haven’t even voiced in to Cindra. _Would I have realized this if I was a girl during my squirehood? Or maybe I wouldn’t be in between at all if my parents hadn’t…_ I shake my head. _Not the time, Samn._

“If that’s your first secret…” Fiyr laughs nervously. “D’you have some big bomb you’re waiting to drop?”

I cringe. “Not… really. Well… let’s just keep going. What’s your second thing?”

Fiyr fiddles with his hands. “Sometimes…” He swallows hard and doesn’t start again. I wait, searching his gaze, but his green eyes are pinned to the carpeted floor. I’m about to prompt him when he says, “Sometimes when I say that I’m out training with Clowd I’m… I go to the cliffs and look for Graie.”

His voice breaks on the name and sympathy surges in me. I reach forward and take his hand. It’s hard to know what to say sometimes, and I’m always worried about making it worse, but I’ve found that a little touch can go a long way. He squeezes my hand and a tear slips out of his eye, dropping into his lap.

“I would do the same,” I say, and the old worry sparks in me. _He’s not going to think that I’m making this about me, is he?_ “I mean—I meant that I don’t blame you.”

“I just miss him,” he says, and closes his eyes. “I miss him every day, and I just want… just want to see him again, more than the Gatherings and—” he waves his hand, “—and all that.”

I touch his arm. “I understand.”

He nods, chewing on his lip, then turns his eyes back to me. “I—sorry, I… I didn’t want to think about him today.”

“I wish he was here,” I say. “I don’t think we should try to ignore the hole that he left behind. I don’t feel better by trying to forget.”

“Me neither,” Fiyr says, finally smiling a little bit. “Thanks. I… I dunno, I sometimes feel like I’m the only one who…” He shakes his head. “I don’t mean it like that, but the courts are so fast to move on, you know? Like… it’s a big deal, but everyone seems to get over it so fast.”

I nod, knowing exactly what he means. _Lady Peilte’s hardly faltered, and he was her son._

“Light as a feather, quick as a storm,” he murmurs. “That’s what Graie said. Don’t let whatever it is hurt you too deeply, and don’t let it stick around for too long.”

I blink. The words are oddly familiar, but I can’t place it for a moment. “Light as a feather and quick as a storm…? Is that what he named Storrem and Faetherra for?”

Fiyr nods.

“Huh. I always wondered.” The silence lulls between us for a moment, and then I remember what we’re doing. “Oh, right. My turn.” This is one that I actually had prepared, and I grimace. “I… when we were squires, really early on…”

He smiles like he knows where I’m going with this. I don’t think he does.

“When Lady Lief was alive,” I add quietly. “I overheard something I wasn’t supposed to. I heard her tell you the prophecy about you.”

His eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah. But… I guess the real truth I wanted to tell you is that I was… really, really jealous for a long time.” I wince. _Here we go._ “Actually, I… still kind of am.” I sigh. “I wish I wasn’t but I can’t help feeling like… like it should have been me, you know?”

He stares at me for a few moments and I feel my face burning. _I knew it. I’m a terrible person._ “The… the ‘fire alone will save our kingdom’ prophecy?”

_Okay, so maybe he’s not there yet._ “Yeah, that one. I just thought it was unfair that you were the chosen one when you’re not… you weren’t from our court.”

“Because I was a god-toy,” he says, face flat and not revealing anything.

I wince again. _Well, that makes me sound even worse._ “Yeah. And because I thought… I worked so hard to be special and different but you were still… the one the Starlaxi picked, or whatever.”

He swallows and doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches tightly between us and I feel like I have to break it.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says. “I didn’t choose this, though, you know? I don’t even—I don’t know what it’s about.”

_It means you’re the one meant for a special destiny,_ I think, the sour thoughts revived by voicing my feelings, but I try to banish it. _Shut up, Samn. You’re captain. The whole court is relying on you, and that doesn’t feel awesome, does it? Do you want_ more _responsibility?_

“I know,” I mumble. “I wish I wasn’t jealous.”

“And I wish I didn’t have this stupid thing hanging over my head,” he mutters back, a bitterness flashing in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. “I try not to think about it, but… what if I’ve already failed? Spottalia died. Was I supposed to save her? Your father died, Ravne got driven out, Sir Hartef was killed…” A pained half-gasp comes from him as it finally streams out of him. I have a feeling he’s been keeping it bottled up for a long time. “I’m doing a pretty shit job of saving the kingdom.”

“Sir Cawle is gone,” I remind him, feeling like this has gone beyond truth-telling, now. _This is about something bigger than either of us._

“Thanks to _you_ ,” he says fiercely, reaching over like he’s going to take my face in his hands, but resting a hand on my shoulder instead. “You were the one who kept pushing the queen.”

“And look how that’s turned out,” I mumble.

“You had to!” he insists. “You told the queen, you convinced me, you saved Ravne, you… you’re the one who’s been saving the kingdom all this time. I don’t know what in the Blacklands that stupid prophecy means, but I know that without you, Thundria would’ve been fucked.”

“Maybe.” I sigh. “Maybe I’ve just been stealing your destiny or something.”

He barks a laugh. “Please keep doing that. I really don’t want to be responsible for saving the whole court.”

I can’t help a laugh too. _This is stupid. I shouldn’t be mad that someone else is stopping the people I care about from being thrown into destruction and ruin._

“That’s two each, right?” Fiyr asks.

“Yeah. Last one,” I say. “Make it a good one.”

Fiyr grimaces. “Well, this isn’t a good one to bring on the heels of yours, but… I’ve been having weird dreams sporadically for a few years.”

“What?” I blink. _Weird dreams? Is he going to kill me in my sleep if we share a bed or something?_

He runs his hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I… I see your father.”

I’m too taken aback to speak for a few moments. _Huh?_ “But… that’s impossible. You don’t… you’ve never met him. How do you even know what he looks like?”

Fiyr’s face creases like it hurts him to tell me. “Because… because they’re dreams from the Starlaxi, I think. It’s his spirit. He looks like you, enough that I figured out who he was in the first dream.”

_The first dream… a few years…_ “How… how long have you been dreaming of my dead father?” Even just saying it out loud is ridiculous.

He glances up, as if he’s searching back in his memory.

_Two years? Three? More?_

“Fifteen years…?” He shakes his head. “I can’t quite remember.”

My fingers curl tightly around the arms of the chair and I take a deep breath. The old, aching bite of jealousy rears up once more to send a furious surge through me. _He’s seen my father for the past_ fifteen years?!

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” My voice is remarkably level.

I might as well have shouted it though, because he flinches when he sees the look in my eye. “I… I’m sorry.”

_That’s not a fucking answer._ I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to rein in the envy that I was _just_ managing to let go of, that has now burrowed right back into my heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I repeat.

“Samn, I…” He shakes his head. “You always seemed so upset when your father’s death was mentioned.” He turns his eyes downward. “I didn’t want to make you sad again, and then… I just never… never said.”

I take a few long breaths and Fiyr eventually peeks up at me. The anger floods out of me. _He didn’t ask for it,_ I remind myself. _But he didn’t tell me either._ “What does my father say to you?”

His brow creases. “Warnings, usually. Sometimes… well, he was the one to tell me to go find Wynnd. He told me years ago that water can put out fire, and I still don’t know what he meant. They… they sound like prophecies.”

I suck in another breath. _He’s not visiting Fiyr because he doesn’t want to visit me,_ I tell myself. _Is that why I’m angry? Because I think he could be visiting me and is choosing not to?_ “And do they come true?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. They’re too vague.”

_Is it possible that they’re just random dreams then?_ I don’t know if Fiyr has enough imagination to invent an appearance for my father out of whole-cloth, though. _Maybe this is somehow tied to his destiny. And I’ll never see my father again, until I die in some stupid accident because I’m not important enough in this world to warrant a meaningful death._

I breathe out, trying to regulate the vindictive impulses. _Calm down._

“Thanks for telling me now,” I say, not really meaning it.

He makes a pained face. “I’m… I’m really sorry. I should’ve told you.”

I nod. “Well. I know now. Will you tell me if you dream of him again?” My voice softens, and no matter how jealous or upset I am, I can’t help being desperate to hear from him again.

“I will,” he promises. “He… sometimes he says stuff…”

I lean forward.

He smiles. “I think… I think he’s happy about, y’know, _us_.”

“He wanted a son,” I comment. “I’m sure he’d love you if he…” I shake my head.

“You’re kind of his son, aren’t you?” Fiyr says, and I smile for real.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

A little of the tension eases between my shoulders.

“Last truth?” he asks.

I let out a somewhat shaky breath and nod. _Right. The one I haven’t planned._ I stare at his expectant face and try to think of something. Something that won’t set off another tense exchange, preferably. I think of Sir Strommer waiting, of the queen ready to perform the ceremony… _No secrets hanging over us._ The thing that I’ve been hiding, trying to protect him from…

“I’m going to be queen and I’m not ready,” I say. It settles between us and I squeeze my eyes shut again. I don’t want to look at him, but I have to tell him. “The queen… there’s something wrong with her, and I don’t think she’s ever going to get better. Unless I die really young, I think I’m going to be Thundria’s next queen.”

My voice trembles a little under the weight of the confession.

“You’re not ready…?” Fiyr repeats.

I shake my head, mute.

“You’re barely thirty,” he reminds me. “Of course you’re not ready to be in charge of the entire kingdom. Queen Bluelianna’s not going to drop dead, is she? Even if she is a bit… off.”

I nod. “That’s true. I… I have a little longer to figure out how to… do everything.”

He covers my hand with his. I didn’t realize it was shaking until his warm grip steadies it. “You don’t have to do everything. You’ll have your captain to help you. And Sir Cawle is gone; no else is waiting at the edges to jump on you and seize power.”

At the reminder of Sir Cawle, I can’t help another confession spilling out of me. _It was just supposed to be three… Can’t we go get United and eat until we’re sick now?_ “I don’t think Sir Cawle is really gone. I don’t believe it.”

Fiyr’s forehead creases. “But it’s… it’s been years, Samn. Don’t you think he would’ve made some move against us by now?”

The uptilt in his tone at the end makes me feel like I’m paranoid, but I can’t shake the feeling. “That’s not how he does things. He waits, he plots, he gathers his power until the time’s right, and then he strikes.”

Fiyr shudders. “I hope not. But if you really think so… I can keep an eye on Darriek and Liang. If he’s up to his old tricks, I’m sure he’ll want his little followers on board.”

I nod. “That’s not a bad idea.”

He looks at me gently for a moment, then rubs my palm with his thumb. “You’re not alone. You don’t have to take him on single handedly, you don’t have to learn how to shoulder every responsibility in the kingdom, and you don’t have to be perfect.”

I look into his eyes, wanting to believe him. _He doesn’t…_ I bite the inside of my cheek. _He doesn’t understand, though, does he?_ This is why I need the _real_ Queen Bluelianna back. _It’s not the same for me. He was a god-toy, but they don’t really look at him like that anymore. He’s proved himself. But everyone’s always going to see a woman when they look at me, and I’m always going to have to be twice the knight as everyone else just to get half the respect. Darriek, Lady Tiall, the elders… they won’t forgive mistakes. They’ll take them as proof that I was never qualified. I_ do _need to be perfect._ I breathe out. _But... Fiyr means well. And it’s true that there are people in the court that I can count on. Him, Sir Fere, Sir Strommer, Mom, Briatte, Duss…_

“You’re right,” I say, hoping he is. He gives me a half-smile, and I stand up, pulling him along with me. “Now c’mon, let’s go get United.”

…

The ceremony is in the throne room. We’re bathed in the gentle light of the candles, everything seeming a little warmer and less real. Dream-like.

The queen is in the heavy blue dress I’ve seen countless times over the years, its silk folds pooling on the stone that Clowd and Faern spent all morning scrubbing. Her crown and star as always cast no doubt to her rank, but she seems to inhabit them a little more confidently tonight. It lights a little bit of hope in my chest when she gives me a quick smile before the ceremony starts.

“Thundria,” she begins, voice sweeping over the amassed court. “We are here to witness two people pledge their lives to each other. Fiyr Harte and Samn Schorme, kneel if you intend to be United. The Starlaxi will recognize your devotion to each other.”

I drop to the ground, slow enough to avoid bruising my knees on the stone. I dart a glance sideways and catch Fiyr’s eye when he does the same. He gives me a quick smile. I feel an answering one tilt the edges of my mouth and I turn my eyes back to the queen’s skirts.

Her thumb brushes my forehead, leaving a streak of the melted butter and silver dust mixed together in an imitation of her own pearly star behind. I wait as she does the same to Fiyr, then I turn, still on my knees.

He’s beautiful in the candlelight, pale face framed with soft golden light. I pause for just a second, floating in this feeling of vulnerability; we’re both on our knees, so close to each other. Then I let out a breath, then lean forward. He does the same closing his eyes, and our foreheads touch gently. I reach out, with my right hand so that we don’t accidentally high-five, and press my hand to his chest. I feel his palm on the springy material of my vest, and warmth swells in my chest. _Mind, heart, and body. Last one comes later, though._

“You are United,” the queen says. “I hope you cherish each other for many years to come.”

I pull slowly away from Fiyr, taking my hand off his chest. He opens his eyes, and they’re just slightly unfocused, like he’s in a trance. _Better wake up Dreaming Rosa, then_ , I think, and kiss him. He nearly melts from the touch and I worry that I’m going to have to stop him from falling over, but he just wraps his arms around me and we hold each other close.

I hear his stomach rumble and pull away, laughing. I’m a little dizzy, but I stand and take his hands in mine.

“Let’s eat!”

As the court begins to move, many flooding toward us to congratulate us, I finally feel the last tension leave my body. I let go of the constant anxiety of the future and I find happiness in the moment. It’s so welcome after being on edge for so long that I almost collapse from relief. Or maybe it’s from the smell in the kitchen.

We all help the squires bring the food out to the dining hall. I set down my steaming bowl of saffron rice and chicken and turn to get more, but Briatte stops me.

“No chores on your Union day,” she says, eyes sparkling, and then orders, “Back to your table, or I’ll throw you out of the castle on your ear!”

I’m about to sit down when I catch up with what she said and shoot her a look. She just flashes me another smile and hurries off back to the kitchens. _Great._ Fiyr slides onto the bench next to me, the smear of silver butter still in the centre of his forehead.

“Is this seat taken?” he jokes.

“I was saving it for my husband,” I reply with a straight face, “but I guess that’s okay.”

He bursts into the sweetest laughter I’ve heard, and it’s then that I realize how long it’s been since I’ve heard him really, _really_ laugh. “That’s right! I’m your husband. You’re my husband. My wife, I mean. Or both.”

I don’t know either, so I kiss him instead, feeling too full of love and joy to speak. _It’s hard to know what to say, sometimes,_ I think again, near-giddy. _But a little touch can go a long way._ I don’t want to forget a single detail, not the glow of the candles or the warmth of him against me—I just want to keep it all in a little box, to keep me alive when our luck inevitably turns. _But tonight, we have each other, and as long as we’re together, we’ll be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, and stay tuned for chapter 2 on November 10th!
> 
> ~Akila


	3. Chapter 2 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! How’s everyone settling into Samn’s perspective? Before we start, a special thank you to CasusBelli for commenting. The memes are appreciated
> 
> Enjoy chapter 2!

Chapter 2 - Samn

I wake up early, as usual.

I thought that might change because of last night, and while it’s definitely a different _experience_ of waking up, the sun still isn’t up and the room is bathed in the grayish light of very-early-morning.

I’m warm, which is unusual.

Under ordinary circumstances in Thundrian winter, I would wrap myself in bunch of pelts before getting into bed, kick them off halfway through the night in my sleep, and then wake up freezing cold. And while I don’t wake up nestled in fur, I feel contentedly warm. It’s almost enough to make me want to stay in bed a little longer, but I know that despite last night’s golden spot of joy, life in Thundria marches on.

I try to wriggle out of his arms without disturbing Fiyr. He talks in his sleep, I discovered a couple years ago, but this morning, he opts to just kind of mumble indistinctly at me as I peel away. I let out a little laugh, too soft to be heard by anyone even if they _were_ awake, and give him a quick kiss on his forehead, then swing my legs around the bed and plant my feet on the ice-cold floor. He rolls over, starfish-ing onto the space I left behind, and with a fond smile, I pull the sheets and quilt over him.

Then, quickly changing out of my shift and into a fresh one, I get ready for my day as captain. _United captain,_ I remember with a flush of warmth. Another little piece added to my collection of identities. _I wonder how this will change things. Certainly, a United lady is more_ useful _to the court._ The old bitterness curls inside me, but I push it away. _But I’m not interested in having kids right this second, so they’ll just have to enjoy my_ usefulness _as the person keeping our heads above water._

I leave Fiyr sleeping in my room and head down to the throne room, trying to keep my footfalls light enough that I don’t wake anyone before I get a chance to breathe, alone. It’s the only peaceful part of the day. I don’t think I ever really appreciated silence until everyone needed my ear for something at all hours of the day. Maybe that’s why I started waking up even earlier than usual; I think the only member of the court who wakes up earlier is Lady Eie.

I’ve been visiting her often, lately. If the Starlaxi won’t advise Lady Fennen or Cindra— _Lady Plait,_ I mentally correct myself for the twentieth time—then maybe Lady Eie’s foggy impressions of the future will prove helpful instead. _I suppose with Fiyr’s special dreams I have a third resource to draw on,_ I think. I’m still not quite sure how I feel; jealous, is the first and most obvious reaction when I think of his confession. _My own father won’t speak to me._ But like Fiyr said, maybe he does approve of our Union. I wish I could hear it from him. Then there’s the part of me that always wants to perform perfection that orders me to smother those feelings of jealousy. _It’s not Fiyr’s fault._ I know that fact in the logical part of my brain that hasn’t failed me yet, but more complicated, animalistic desires to hear my father’s voice, to be appreciated by the cosmic forces of the world, writhe beneath the surface, and I can’t fully accept it.

_Am I a bad person?_

Well, _that’s_ too much to deal with this morning, so I look away and head for the elder’s wing. I’m barely through the door when I hear Sir Peld’s snores.

Lady Eie sits alone with a deck of maiorum cards at their communal table. She deals them out, each winged form, bright-skinned being, and half-animal creature fanning from underneath the prior, then gathers them up again. “Samn.”

Her voice is raspy and soft, absorbed by the velvet silence of morning. I take the chair next to her out from under the table, trying not to scrape it against the stone floor too much, and then sit down.

“Are you winning?”

The edges of her mouth are drawn up into the deep creases that were formed a long time ago, and she turns her blind eye away from the deck of cards. “I don’t know yet.”

That’s a familiar answer. I try not to pester her, but when I do I’m usually met with that. She’ll see some image or suggestion, and then refuse to interpret it. I draw my own conclusions, but I have no faith in them. _What good is future life-force when she won’t use it?_

“Did you dream?”

Her eyes crinkle, in irritation or amusement. It’s always hard to tell with her, but then she smiles and says, “I dreamed of fire.”

The answer settles in my belly. _Well, that seems clear enough._ I don’t pester her this time; my conclusions can’t be far off with a dream like that. “Right. Thank you.”  
I make to stand, but she stops me.

“And I heard something.”

“In the dream?” I sit back down, ready to drink in her words and spit out something unfavourable for my place in the world, but she takes me by surprise.

“No, I heard something last night.” Her words have always carried an odd lilt, a hint of accentation from all the memorized Old Thundrian, and it strengthens as she continues. Her smile has dropped away and her small, dark eyes hold mine. “From my… companions.” She gestures in the direction of Sir Peld’s snoring. “They doubt you.”

My jaw tightens as I swallow, and I take a measured breath before I say, “I know.”  
“They fear you will be queen.”

_So do I._ “I know.”

“The ceremony was improper,” Lady Eie continues. “They praised your Union for its adherence to our traditions, and they foresee happiness for Sir Harte and you. In the inverse, they see darkness in our leadership’s future because of the timing of your captain ceremony.”

“They can’t see the future,” I reply, and my voice is more even than I would have expected. _It was after midnight._ Cold hands of doubt slide into the pit of my stomach and I swallow. “So what do you think?”

Lady Eie shuffles the cards without speaking for a minute. The papery sound of them sliding against each other soothes me a little while she thinks. Then she says, “I think you will be queen. A very young queen. I think I’ve had enough dreams to know that Thundria’s future is tumultuous, and I believe the coming year or two will bring it to a head. Queen Bluelianna may die in the coming storms, and then you will have to guide us instead.”

I squash a sigh. _As if I’m not already. A year, though…?_

She regards me for a moment, her weathered, crooked fingers pausing the movement of the cards, and then nods. “Or you’ll guide us _fully_ , should I say?”

I stand. “Thank you, Lady Eie.”

“I’ll let you know if I dream again,” she says, a bit of the old grumble returning to her voice. “You don’t need to come bother me every morning.”

I don’t tell her that I like to talk to her, even when she doesn’t have anything to tell me. I don’t tell her that I feel a little more at ease in her presence, that she makes me think of racing around the castle with Duss and coming to a halt in the elder’s wing, listening to some tale from Lady Tali, and that I feel more like the boy I used to be when I sit at their table. I fold up the thoughts for later and carry on with another day.

…

In the ensuing week, things change and things stay the same.

Fiyr officially moves into my room, which goes off with only a few hitches. A groove in the floor from a dropped dresser, and Fiyr’s horror at my clothes-folding-habits or lack thereof, but for the most part it feels like part of me has come home. I get used to waking up warm.

Goldanna’s little black-and-gold-haired daughter demonstrates. Her brother says something half-intelligible excitedly, and then the nursery nearly burns down from the explosion of the oils created by a thicket of flowers. _Dittany_ , Goldanna proudly tells everyone who listens, braiding the girl’s thick black coils with the pale pink petals. The lemony fragrance follows her, and she’s named Ditanella that evening by the queen. A very Old Thundrian name, to inspire loyalty? I don’t know. I’m just glad that she wasn’t an alchemist, or the court would whisper. But her life-force isn’t alchemy, or maybe just the very old kind where you mix different elements to create an unstable concoction.

She takes after her mother’s flower-summoning, I think, even if life-force isn’t passed down from parent to child. But more narrow and volatile than Lady Flourer’s wide breadth of power. Dittany is not a kind of flower we will be lacing the castle in for Flowerstar’s Day. _She could be a force in battle, if we let her,_ I think, and don’t say it aloud. Instead, I show Briatte how to crush a windpipe.

Today, though, I’ve given Briatte the day off, so I spend it with the rest of the court while she disappears into the library. Lady Flourer is first on my list of targets, and I find her in the weak sunshine of the nursery. Ditanella and her brother are racing around, out into the throne room and then back again, and I hasten out of their way as they barrel through the doorway. When I unstick myself from the doorframe, my eyes catch on a dark feather wedged between the white wood and the stone. I bend, hoping the kids don’t knock me down when my back is turned and pick it up. _Odd. Did a bird come in the window?_ I tuck it in my pocket and forget about it, then turn my attention to Lady Flourer.

“Lady Schorme,” she greets me with an easy smile. She’s seated by the bookshelf on the far side of the room, lost in thought, but her dark eyes refocus on me readily. “What can I do for you?”

I sit next to her, startled a little when the chair reveals itself to be a rocking chair and tilts me backward. “Ah! Um, I… sorry, I just wanted to check in and make sure everything’s okay with your kids after Ditanella’s demonstration.”

Goldanna nods, the smile faltering for a second, and then says, “You can talk to them if you like. Nella! Could you and your brother come here for a moment?”

The two kids reappear in the door of the nursery, breathless, and Lady Flourer beckons them over to her.

“Lady Samn wants to ask you something, baby,” she tells Ditanella, who gets a very serious look on her face and informs her mother,

“Dee-tah-ney-ah,” she says, then smiles. “My name.”

“That’s right.” Lady Flourer’s eyes soften as she looks back at me. “So what do you want to know?”

“Uh, Ditanella,” I flash a glance at Goldanna, then continue, “have you used your life-force?”

She nods; this is a matter of great importance to her, which I would find funny, but it’s just as important to me. “My demonstration.”

“Oh, yes—” I fumble. “I mean other than that.”

The girl blinks those enormous dark eyes, then shrugs. “I dunno. Can I go, Mummy?”

Goldanna waves them off after confirming that I’ve got my answer, then gives me a curious look. “She hasn’t; she can’t use her life-force until she’s twelve. Or… what are you thinking?”

My brow furrows and I shake my head. “Sorry, it’s not about…” _Not about their father._ Goldanna doesn’t speak, but the twitch at the edge of her mouth recognizes how I was going to end that sentence. “I thought so. I mean, I know she won’t be able to…” I shake my head again. “Forget it. How… um, how are they doing?”

I never quite know what to say around the ladies of the court, even though I feel like I should know them better through my mother. I know Lady Fuor’s blue, hawk-sharp gaze and Lady Flourer’s comfortable grace, but I still can’t quite grasp how to make small-talk with them.

“Growing every day,” she answers with a proud gleam in her eyes. “He still hasn’t demonstrated, and I’ve decided if it takes another year, I’ll name him for ‘Spark.’ What do you think?”

I’m taken off-guard; this woman who at least _seems_ to possess so much more life experience and wisdom turning to me for advice, even in this little way. I duck my head. “I’m sure the queen would give him a lovely name.”

“Something equally as _Thundrian_ as ‘Ditanella?’” she asks with a wry twist of a smile.

It hasn’t escaped her notice, evidently. _Paired with Nella, that very common-sounding nickname…_ I wonder if she’s pushing back against the aggressive patriotism that the queen gifted her daughter. Or maybe she appreciates it. _Or maybe it’s a fucking nickname and there’s no layer of deeper meaning,_ an acidic part of myself proposes.

“Right,” I say, instead of voicing any of the things swirling around my brain.

“How do you think the court will think of them?” Goldanna asks me, some of that assuredness in her gaze giving way to vulnerability. “Do they see my son and think of his father?”

_He’s a three year old,_ I think, but I don’t say that. You’re not supposed to dismiss people’s concerns out of hand, right? _Acknowledge why she’s afraid._ “His legacy… looms large,” is all I can manage. “But I’m sure your son will find… his own path.” _I sound like a damn healer._

Goldanna quirks a dark brow. “I hope so. I…” The same uncertainty rises to the surface again. “I hope so. I just want them to grow up in a court that won’t expect anything of them.”

I nod. “I understand.”

“I’m certain you do.” Then she turns the full power of those dark eyes on me and I feel disarmed. “You escaped the expectations of a girl and got the boys’ instead.”

_What?_

“I wondered about your parents’ choice, years ago, when you revealed it,” she admits, and I’m struck with a feeling I’ve gotten more and more this past year, that we’re talking as two adults instead of lady to squire. It’s disconcerting, to say the least. “I know why they did it. But I wondered if you might have just found yourself with a new burden.”

I open my mouth, not quite sure what to say. “Well… I wanted to prove I could be just as good.”

She takes in my words silently for a moment, then says, “Yes. And you did prove that, and are proving that, hundreds of times over, aren’t you? When you have to prove you _can_ be, though, did… did you ever feel like it turned into _having_ to be as good? Or better?”

I suddenly remember the truth-telling from a week ago, still fresh but fading. _He said I didn’t have to be perfect. That wasn’t true. I felt like it wasn’t true, at least._ “I was going to prove that we could be just as good…” I repeat. “And… so I had to be better, yes.”

She tilts her head. “Sir Teyl is quite bad with his sword. Sir Wynnd probably won’t ever train a squire.” Her voice sharpens. “Sir _Cawle_ was a traitor.” I’m set on edge at the mention of her husband, but I wait for her to finish her thought. “Why weren’t you allowed to be a bad swordsman, too impatient for a squire, and… well, perhaps not traitorous, but…?”

And finally, what I didn’t say at the truth-telling pulls free of my constraints. “Because I couldn’t be. Because a personal failure would be _proof_ that there was a reason we’ve been shut up in nursery.”

“We,” she repeats, then looks away, thinking. “Yes. I understand why Lady Faise did it, what she might have changed for herself, but… still. Did it ever feel unfair? To _you_?”

I think of the dart board, of Lady Lief, of the silent judgement of the elders, and swallow the feelings. _Sometimes._ I feel defensive of my mother and father. “I don’t know.”

She must see it, because she drops it. “I don’t mean to push you. I’m sorry, Samn, it’s… it wasn’t your choice. I just wonder about how Nella will grow up.”

I nod. _I’d be just as concerned for any daughter of mine._ “I don’t blame you. But if it’s any consolation…” I hesitate. _Don’t make a promise you can’t keep._ “I want things to be better, and I have the power to try, at least.”

She smiles at last. “You’re a good captain, Samn.”  
The compliment makes my cheeks warm, and I duck my head once more. “Thanks, Lady Flourer. I—I don’t think I ever really—”

“Lady Flourer!”

The cry splits the peace of the morning, and Goldanna is on her feet in an instant. I place the voice as Lady Fyrra, and race out of the nursery on Goldanna’s heels. The throne room is abuzz with commotion but I ignore everyone around the perimeter and focus on the centre.

Goldanna’s son, a chubby little boy of three years, is standing with his hands spread out, with the oddest look on his face. Usually he and Ditanella are racing around, shrieking at each other and generally terrorizing the court, but his face has gone slack. It’s been years since I actually saw one—Ditanella’s was in the nursery—but I know what the look means. He’s demonstrating.

“Stay back,” I warn the lady. “It could be dangerous!”

But she’s already running to him, gathering him up in her arms as his hands stretch toward the ground. Then, from the ground, thick, thorny black vines erupt, grabbing and tearing Lady Flourer’s dress. Despite it, she holds her son tight.

I watch, frozen for a second and wondering if I should run toward her to pry her away from him. _What if it’s another explosion, like Ditanella’s? Lady Flourer could be badly hurt!_ It looks like he has some kind of plant-summoning, which I would have said a week ago couldn’t cause any sort of fire or instantaneous destruction, but after seeing those flaming bushes…

“Lady Flourer!” I shout. My own self-preservation prevents me from sprinting over and yanking her son out of her harms. She holds onto him tightly, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. My heart leaps into my throat as I wait for the vines twined around them, spread in a circle with a radius of a metre or two at most to move, but the boy just goes slack. Lady Flourer cuddles him to her chest.

I race over to them, terrified that Goldanna is about to keel over with thorns bursting from her throat or something, but she just straightens and glances at me.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

I pause, slack-jawed. _What? What in the Blacklands do you_ think _is wrong?_ “You could have been seriously injured! _Never_ get that close to a demonstrating child!”

She just gives me a radiant, peaceful smile. “My son…? He could never hurt me.”

I don’t bother answering that; I’ve heard horror stories, and he _is_ the son of Sir Cawle, innocent though he may be. Instead, I take a deep breath and try to assess the situation of our floor. It’s then that I notice.

“That was… a small one,” I say, looking down at the small patch of thorny underbrush, then cover my mouth. _Fuck. That’s rude._ But Goldanna is still entranced by the sight of her own son, who yawns and wraps his arms around her neck. “Er, I mean…”

“Blessed Starlaxi!” The cry comes from Sir Wynnd, who was just opening the castle’s doors.

My gaze whips toward him instantly, the tension created by Goldanna’s proximity to a potentially dangerous demonstration finding a new raison-d’etre. _What now?!_

“Lady Flourer!” he calls, shaking his head and looking amazed. “Come here!”

I beat her there, though, too high-strung to consider how I look dashing across the throne room. Sir Wynnd waves his hand to the sight that greets me outside, but I hardly need to be shown.

Rosebushes.

Thousands, at least, stretching all across the treetops of Thundria.

“Blessed Starlaxi,” I breathe.

_So… not quite as small as I thought._ They’re beautiful; red blooms crowded with thorny branches— _And blackberries?_ I notice—but I can’t help a foreboding shiver from creeping up my back. _That’s one of the most powerful demonstrations since… since I can remember._

A demonstration that stretched across nearly all of Thundria… _Since me._

Lady Flourer laughs from behind me and I turn. She’s still holding her son tight to her chest, and it looks like he’s nodded off to sleep, but her dark eyes are bright as stars. “Another plant-summoner, and right after each other…” She kisses the springy hair on the top of his head, then looks at me. “They’ll protect each other.”

I nod, not quite sure what to say.

“What’s going on?” It’s the queen, leaving her chambers for the first time in the past couple days. Her hair is a little dishevelled and I think it’s been a while since she washed, but her sharp gaze roves over the stunned court til it reaches me, Lady Flourer, and Sir Wynnd standing by the doors of the castle.

I bow. “A demonstration, Your Highness.”

Her brow furrows when she sees the boy in Lady Flourer’s arms, and I see Goldanna’s expression harden a fraction. The queen says nothing, though, merely turning and disappearing back into her chamber. I can’t help relaxing a bit, but I’m concerned about what the rest of the court thinks of her spotty appearances.

_I have to organize today’s patrols._

“Alright, show’s over,” I say, glancing at Goldanna, who is making her way to the nursery, rocking her young son gently. “I need a patrol to go check out the report from Trueno of increased elf activity in the south forests. Fiyr, Lady Fuor, can you two deal with those vines?”

As the court disperses, I catch Sir Fere’s arm as he heads for the squire’s wing to fetch Faern.

“A word, Sir Fere?” I guide him over to the entrance of the healer’s wing without stepping through the doorway. “I just wanted to check in and ask how Faern’s training is progressing.”

Brakken blinks his guileless brown eyes, and gives me an uncertain smile. “Oh! Um, sure.”

“Is she a quick learner? Picking up on what you teach?” I prompt.

He bites his lip. “Well… I think I’ve taught her… what a lady of the court would have to know.”

I try not to frown at him. _I didn’t recommend you as her mentor because I wanted you to teach her to play the flute and change nappies._ “Sir Fere… I was the one who suggested to the queen that you train my sister.”

“That’s… very kind, m’lady,” he stammers.

I want to ask him if he thinks I’m about to slap him, but I resist and try for a gentler tone. “And I think it would be a waste of your talents to teach her to curtsy and cook.”

His brows draw together. “Should I…”

“Teach her combat life-force. You can start whenever you’re comfortable, but...” I glance at the passage to the squire’s wing, across the throne room. “You’re a fine knight, Sir Fere, and I want you to mold her into the same.”

I can tell he’s a bit caught off guard, but gives me a sharp nod all the same. “Right. I’ll… I’ll do my best. Thank you.”

I give him a clap on the back and he finally smiles, then makes his way across the throne room to the squire’s wing. _Good. That’s dealt with._ I know she’s starting to get cross with me, but most dinners I’ve been asking Faern for a detailed report of what she learned that day, and I noticed a pattern in the… shall we say, instructional material. _If I’m going to keep changing things the way the queen did for me, then I’m starting with my sister. She shouldn’t have to bind her chest and keep up some elaborate facade just to get a proper education. Not that she shouldn’t know how to change nappies…_

I grimace, thinking of my own inexperience. _I wasn’t lying when I told Fiyr years ago that I wanted to establish myself as a proper captain before we had kids, but…_ Despite staying far away from the nursery for most of my squirehood, I know raising kids is an immense amount of work, even if you _do_ know what to do, which I definitely don’t. _Although I don’t know if I’m just going to magically know what to do in a year. Then again, if I start asking Mom and the other ladies of the court, it’ll be all over the court by tomorrow and that’ll definitely piss away any respect I’ve earned._ Just the thought of Darriek’s smug face makes my fists clench.

I look over at where Fiyr and Lady Fuor are burning and freezing away the vines respectively, and wince. _I’m glad we’re United, but… is everyone gonna think I’m about to get pregnant?_ Old insecurities rear their heads. _And what if I_ do _want to have kids? How am I going to have them when everyone’s waiting to ship me off to the nursery? Who would take over as captain? Whoever did would realize that I’m practically running the kingdom!_ I hold the wall, steadying myself, and take a deep breath. _Alright. Enough. I don’t have to figure everything out just this moment._

I focus on the tasks of the day instead. _Okay. I got an update from Sir Fere, I talked to Fiyr about Clowd last week, now I can go tell the queen how the new squires are doing._ I cross the throne room with purposeful steps, feeling the mini-spiral fade. _And I guess Lady Flourer will be needing a name for her son. Am I supposed to figure it out…? How does the queen even go about choosing names?_

When I enter the queen’s chambers, not bothering to knock, though, I hear her murmuring, “Brem-bal, Ti-gre, Bremb-al, Tig-re—”

“Your Highness…?” I step into the dim room and take a seat in the chair in front of her desk, averting my eyes from the crumb-dusted plate next to her massive stack of papers.

“Samn,” she says, her unfocused blue gaze landing on me. “Yes. _Brembal_ , for Goldanna’s boy? What do you think?”

I falter. “Er… that sounds good. I was just… just coming to update you on Faern and Clowd.”

She nods, and keeps slowly bobbing her head to silent music as I tell her about them.

“Fiyr says Clowd is doing well technically, but is having some behavioural problems…” I try not to openly cringe at the memory of all of Fiyr’s horror stories of his terribly behaved nephew. It really doesn’t help that Clowd shot past him in height, is built like a tree, and looks more like an eighteen-year-old than the skinny, short Sewif. “While Faern… Sir Fere has been teaching her all that a lady of the court would need to know, but…”

I hesitate, realizing I didn’t get her to sign off on me telling him to redirect his efforts. _But I don’t get her approval on most of everything else that I do,_ I think. _If she wants to be involved, she can start involving herself._ “I told him to start teaching her combat life-force.”

“Combat,” the queen echoes and I brace myself for a rebuke. “I see. Yes, that is wise. We have many enemies, Samn, you and I both know.” Her eyes flash with sudden intensity. “He will be back for my crown. You must—” She shakes her head. “No. Forgive me. We must visit the Lunar Temple.”

I pause, startled. “The Lunar Temple, Your Majesty?”

“I must…” She shakes her head again, creases in her face deepening with displeasure. “I have much to ask them. Next week, we’ll ride out.”

“Should I bring Briatte and Thorrin along…?” I hold out hope that this is just a routine visit for the squires, but I know I’m wrong even as the words come out of my mouth. The queen gives one, decisive shake of her head.

“No, Samn. This is private business,” she says, and her expression darkens. “I don’t want the squires there.”

Despite the concerning nature of her last declaration, I stand. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

She waves me off and I back out slowly, half-hoping she’ll call me back and say something that makes _sense_. I try not to count the days between her lucidity, but it’s become unconscious. _She was… stable at the ceremony last night,_ I remind myself. _She must be getting a little better._

I cast one last long look at the woman I idolized so much and force myself to turn away, ignoring the tangles of her hair, the deep lines of her face, the glassy look in her eyes… _She can’t really be gone. Can she?_ With a terrible, lonely feeling settling over me, I leave her chambers and face the court once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave your thoughts in a comment and I’ll give you a specially whittled figurine of baby Brambleclaw.
> 
> ~Akila


	4. Chapter 3 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> ...are you excited for Clowd? Because I am. Enjoy!

Chapter 3 - Clowd

“Should’ve run faster, dumbass,” I comment, wiping the blood off my hands, leaving a scarlet trail on my over-clothes.

The jackrabbit is too dead to reply, so I do it for it.

“ _Nooo, please Clowd, don’t kill me! I have a rabbit family!_ ” I squeak, then toss its limp body over Sir Fluffyhooves’s saddle. “Ha! I’ll kill them too and suck the marrow from their bones.”

I pause when I hear the bushes rustle. _Can Fiyr hear me goofing off?_ Or as I’m sure he’d put it, _Not showing the proper respect to the creatures that the Starlaxi has given us to eat, blah blah blah._

When he doesn’t come jumping out to lecture me, I snort to myself. _Well, if they’re so mad they can come down here and tell me._ I look up at the grayish winter sky. _Hear that, you nest of old ghosts? C’mon down and tell me to be nice to the rabbit corpse._ Big shocker, the empty sky doesn’t change. Not even a suspiciously moving cloud.

_That’s what I thought._

I turn back into the bushes to find something else, and immediately spot what was rustling in there. A big, soft-eyed doe stares at me, frozen, its dappled brown body stark against the drab whites and grays of the wintry world.

“This is too easy!” I exclaim, and before it can disappear, I flex my gloved hand and send an explosion of corruption out from within its chest. White spikes erupt from the surface of its smooth brown pelt and it collapses, dead before it even knows what’s happening. “At least make me work for it.”

When I bend over the deer, I see that the corruption in its neck has pushed all the way up into its chin. I laugh at the comically gruesome sight and extend my control over the corruption, pushing it further through its head until a white peak pops out its wet black nose like a giant, spiky snot bubble.

“Oops, you got a little something there,” I joke, reaching out to push it back in. “Gross.” Then I bend and string it over my shoulders and lift it easily. “Another dumb animal! Hunting’s no fun if you all just jump into my knife.”

“Hunting’s not supposed to be _fun_ , it’s a task necessary for the kingdom’s health.”

_Oh boy, here we go._

Fiyr rides out of the bushes with his lecturing-face on and I force myself not to roll my eyes. _Oh noooo, what if he gives me laundry duty?_ I already have another two weeks of laundry to work through, but let’s be real, I’m going to end up with more before that time is up.

“And don’t forget to thank the Starlaxi,” Fiyr adds.

My nostrils flare and even though I know better, I can’t help muttering, “It’s not like _they_ caught it.”

Fiyr’s gaze sharpens. “What did you say?”

I sigh heavily. _Yes, stupid me for not giving all the credit to a bunch of dots of light in the sky. Clearly,_ I _am being unreasonable._

“Nothing, _Sir Harte_ ,” I snark. His lips wrinkle in that way they do when I use his title in that tone. _His mouth looks like a butthole_ , I consider, and smother a laugh when he continues to stare at me with his pursed little lips.

“Well?” he says.

“Well what?”

“Thank the Starlaxi for blessing you with a rabbit and a doe,” he prompts, the muscle in his jaw twitching like he’s reining in his temper. I know that cue pretty well after three years of training; his skin gets splotchy and red which doesn’t really help hide his blocked pores and freckles, then his jaw tightens, then his eyes flash, and then I get laundry duty.

_Is it worth it?_ I heave another sigh which does nothing to soothe Fiyr’s annoyance. _I’m gonna get laundry duty anyway._ “Why? I did all the work.”

His jaw clenches so hard I think his teeth are about to shatter, but he makes an obvious effort to take a deep breath, then replies, “Because they are responsible for the good in our lives.”

“Mhm,” I say, mounting Sir Fluffyhooves to be on the same level as him if nothing else. _Yeah, like these great cosmic ancestors were squinting at the Thundrian forests from up on their clouds like ‘Hmm, yes, for the good of the universe, this squire must catch this jackrabbit and that doe.’ Give me a break._ What I _know_ is that I found its trail, using my own five senses, I might add, and then tracked it down, and then trapped it and killed it with my hunting knife. There wasn’t exactly a flurry of stars and dead people involved.

“It’s _important_ ,” he pursues.

_Damn, are we really going to do this right now?_ “Yeah? Why? What are they going to do if I don’t thank them? Aren’t they all-benevolent?” I smirk. _Might as well get my shots in if he’s determined to be a stick in the mud._

His eyes flash. _Check. Okay, now it’s laundry time._ “That’s not the point! It’s not about punishment or keeping them happy, it’s just a part of court life. No other squire has a problem with this.”

_Oh right, I forgot the last point on the checklist._

“Faern _always_ thanks the Starlaxi.”

_Comparing me to my sister_.

“Wow, really?” I say. I try not to let it show, but it always hits a nerve.

“I don’t want to compare you two, but she sets a good example, Clowd.”

_Mission failed._ “Right, you don’t mean to compare us, but,” I put on my famous Fiyr-impression, “‘try to be more like Faern! Perfect _courtborn_ Faern, perfect _human_ Faern.”

Fiyr flinches.

“Here, _you_ take them, and take the credit,” I snap, unstrapping the doe and rabbit and tossing them to him. Well, I toss the rabbit. I let the doe fall to the ground. “Or give it to the _Starlaxi_ , I don’t care.”

And I pull Sir Fluffyhooves around and ride off into the forest before Fiyr can assign me laundry duty. He doesn’t chase after me; I think after enough shouting matches he knows when he needs to cool off. I take deep, cold breaths, wishing there was another nearby deer I could take out some of the fizzling anger on as I ride off.

When nothing shows itself, I shoot another baleful glare over my shoulder at Fiyr through the trees. Well, the green smudge in the distance; he’s too far to catch me. The argument plays again in my brain and I feel my irritation with him start to boil over. _Why the fuck does he think that punishing me all the time and telling me how great Faern is will somehow make me think that a bunch of tales for little kids are worth thanking for_ my _hard work?_

I think of Faern again and sigh. With her, at least, I’ve stopped bringing up my… shall we say, _skepticisms_ of the Starlaxi. When she gives me a disapproving look at least, I care a little more than when Fiyr does. I know that I’m not going to change her mind, so what’s the point in arguing? I don’t understand Fiyr at all, though. _He didn’t even grow up here. Why does he accept all this crazy shit? For once, it’d be nice to talk to someone about… stuff, without them immediately saying ‘Just trust in the Starlaxi! Listen to the random dead people and everything will be dandy!’_

I pause and pull Sir Fluffyhooves’s reins lightly to stop him. _Actually, there is someone…_

Then I redirect our course a little, calling to mind a map of Thundria in my brain, and come upon a path. Advantages of having a memory like a locked box, I guess. I sniff the air, trying to catch the smell of any coming patrols or singular hunters, and tap my heels on my horse’s flanks when I don’t catch anything. Just the prickly, cold smell of winter and the faint one of rotting wood.

Even if my god-half doesn’t let me use the Trace, obviously gods have some kind of extraordinary senses, because even with just half, I’ve learned I can catch conversations that should be out of my earshot, can smell animals and other stuff that would be undetectable without the Trace, and absolutely hate most foods. Fiyr insists it’s because I’m a picky eater.

I try not to dwell on it, usually. Better if everyone just thinks I’m amazingly talented and it has nothing to do with my half-breedness. So once more, I push it away and focus on the trail ahead of me. As I get further from Thundria’s castle, and by extension most of the major Blessings, the forest transforms. It’s hard to explain when you don’t have the kind of detail-spotting vision that I do, but the branches seems to twine in more random patterns; showing themselves in decades of growth and decay instead of a monarch forcing it to replicate itself over and over again in minutes. The bushes tangle more tightly, the land dips and rises more dramatically in a way that doesn’t lend itself to going off the path and knifing jackrabbits. It’s more untamed. I like it.

Despite how randomized and unpredictable it is, I actually think I know it better than most Thundrians. I’ve been on this path hundreds of times, since before I was technically allowed out of the castle, after all. I nudge Sir Fluffyhooves a little to speed him up and try to use the last fifteen minutes of the ride to the outer territory to cool off.

When I reach the wall at the forest’s edge, I scale it quickly and wait, watching the deserted gardens and the gods on guard at the manor’s doors in the distance. Nobody guards the servants’ exit. _Why would they?_ The reminder that my mother is trapped makes my hands bunch into fists. I’ve been reading everything I can about gods, which isn’t actually saying very much since Thundria’s library is sorely lacking.

There are about three or four books, as well as assorted notes in encyclopedias of species. Mostly half-legible, paranoid scribblings by elders, which are mostly useless, but occasionally I’ll learn something. I know, for example, that if a god-toy leaves the gods, their spirit dies, which I’ve discovered is a fun way to say that they can’t leave or they’ll drop dead because of the spirit-clipping. I’ve found _very_ unhelpful speculations about the weaknesses of gods. Someone wrote _Burning?_ and underlined it three times. I found one account from someone who called themself an ex-god-toy, but I don’t know how that’s possible given the above consequences of spirit-clipping. I’m almost at the end of our reservoir of information, but because I don’t want anyone to see what I’m researching, I’ve been moving at a glacial pace.

Apparently me just _existing_ is too much god-stuff for most of the court, and I don’t want to consider what they’d think of me if they knew I was reading up on my other half. The way I see it, though, is that if I’ve got all these secret crazy abilities locked away and if I’m on their side, they should be grateful that I’m trying to find out how to harness them.

I swing my legs absentmindedly, still staring at the unmoving door in the side of the massive house. _C’mon Mom, where are you?_ I didn’t give her any kind of notice, but it’s pretty hard to communicate even if I did plan the visit. I look up at the sun, trying to guess at what time it is. _Is she done yet?_

Finally, the door opens and my mom emerges, a heavy wool coat around her shoulders. I hop off the wall and wind my way through the garden to her.

“Clowd!” Her face lights up when she sees me and I can’t help smiling.

_Nice to be appreciated._ She gives me a big hug, and I pat the top of her head, then laugh.

“My little mom,” I tease.

She gives me a look and pulls away. “I’ll have you know that I am quite tall, young man. We’re not all overgrown beanpoles. How are you? It’s been weeks!”

“Fiyr has me training dawn until dusk,” I groan, only half-kidding. “Hardly have time to eat and sleep.”

Her brow creases in worry. “Well, you should make sure you’re taking breaks.”

“Yeah.”

“C’mon, come sit down and you can tell me what you’ve been learning!” she suggests, and guides me over to one of the benches. I sweep off the snow with a glove and sit, grimacing at the cold marble on my butt.

“Well, I’ve been hunting a lot,” I tell her. “I caught two things this morning.”

She nods, putting on an expression of suitable astonishment, although I feel like she doesn’t really have a frame of reference for what that means.

“And Fiyr and I have been doing battle life-force training,” I add. “I’m learning how to use my… my corruption to beat up people who want to hurt like… villagers, and stuff.”

“Wow! Is it dangerous?”

I hesitate. “No.”

She nods, but I don’t think she quite believes me. I try to give her a reassuring look.

“Seriously, Mom, people from the courts don’t kill each other in battle and everyone else isn’t strong enough to do real damage,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster.

She tilts her head. “And what about… dragons, and elves, and all that?”

Despite the reminder of my altercation when I was much younger— _Fire, so much fire everywhere, scales as hard as diamonds, trapped in burning trees_ —I wave my hand dismissively. “They’re super rare. I’m more worried about a tree landing on me.”

“A tree?” she exclaims, and I laugh.

“Relax, Mom. Nobody’s died at court in _years_ ,” I assure her. “I’m not really in danger. I mean, not more danger that _you’re_ in, right? Isn’t there a chance that like, something in your performance will go wrong and you’ll hurt yourself?”

That makes her pause, and her brows draw together, then she says, “You’re right, Clowd. We’re not ever completely safe, but I’m not waving a sword around daily.”

I laugh, finally feeling a little calmer after my argument with Fiyr. “That’s true, I guess.” I don’t point out that in my eyes, life-force is a much bigger threat. I haven’t been in a real fight, yet, but I know that it’s going to be easier to block a true-steel swing at my knees than it will be to combat a disease-alchemist turning my gut into rotting flesh. “How’re you managing, Mom?”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach into her brown eyes. I wish I had her eyes.

“Fine, like always,” she says, and makes a half-laugh even though it wasn’t a joke.

As always, my brain jumps back to mentally flipping through every page, every scrap of information we have on gods and god-toys. _There must be some way to get her out._ I found one document that suggested there _was_ a cure for spirit-clipping, which elated me, but it’s hardly worth thinking about since the page was so old it was faded and torn at the edges, and seemed to have been wedged between the pages of various other almanacs and textbooks, preserved over many years. And most importantly, it neglected to explain the fucking process.

So all I’m left with is Mom’s not-really-a-smile-smile and a super old piece of paper that implies there _might’ve_ , _once_ , _decades ago_ , been something I could do about it.

“That’s good,” I say, and I don’t really mean it

“Clowd, I…” she begins, but I cut her off.

“I hear something!” I exclaim in a whisper.

There’s a sound like a door opening, pretty far down the side of the house, I think. Mom hops off the bench like a startled rabbit, and I follow her when she hurries me behind a large hedge. The leaves are so dark it’s hard to tell, but I think they’re purple. It smells vaguely bitter. _I wonder if the spirit-clipping cure is some kind of herb._ I could ask Cindra, I guess, but I really doubt she would have kept it a secret.

I hear footsteps, heavier than a human’s. My mom doesn’t react, so I have to guess that they’re still out of her earshot, but I can’t help peering through the leaves to try to get a look. The shards of white light that poke through it aren’t really enough for a full picture, but as I slowly move from side-to-side, filling in my line of sight.

Soon enough, I have the full picture of the now-silent garden. I can still hear the foot-falls, but the arches, benches, and paths are completely clear. Only the drifting snow disturbs them, creating a soft blanket of sound with the quiet _puff_ s as each flake burrows into its predecessor.

The foot-falls are nearing. I focus my senses on them, trying to pinpoint the direction. Then I see him.

At first I mistake him for a human, somehow. He’s got the basic building blocks, I guess—two long legs, two arms swinging at his sides, a head, a long, coiffed mane of white hair, and so on, but it doesn’t take me longer than split second to know he’s no villager or god-toy. For starters, he must be at least eight feet tall. He passes the archway that I ducked under when I walked over to my mom without it reaching his broad shoulders. He could easily take up the whole bench. I’m transfixed by him, cataloguing every last detail, from his unnaturally pale skin, his symmetrical features, his crystal blue eyes, and the new smell rolling off him. Too-sweet fruit, and sharp, like elderberry wine. And something unnameable on top, like breathing in hot vapour. It tingles in my nose.

_A god._

I’m nearly giddy. _A real god?_ I know that they’re the ones responsible for my mom’s trapped-ness, but I can’t help being a little starstruck. _He looks more like me than… than anyone._ His hair marks him as different, like a Thundrian, maybe, but his unexpected height, piercing, frosty eyes, and snowy complexion look more like my mirror-reflection than any odd-haired courtborn. His clothes, too, are finer than a Thundrian uniform. It’s like ceremonial wear, but unless god-holidays work differently, he’s just wearing it on a normal day—white fur and cornflower silk meeting each other seamlessly, accentuating his odd features rather than clashing with them like the pale green tunic beneath my over-clothes does.

He looks at me.

I catch my breath and try not to make a sound. He doesn’t… _see_ me, exactly, but I can feel his attention cut through the hedge, right into me like a pin. The fine hairs on my arms raise under my over-clothes.

Then I… hear something, I think. It’s not coming in my ears, but I don’t know how else to explain it. Like someone else thought something inside my brain. The difference between hearing yourself speak aloud and hearing someone else, but with my inner thoughts instead.

_Dejka_.

The consonants are wrong, laying on top of each other instead of taking their turns, but it clicks in some yet-dormant part of my brain. _What?_ I try to think back at him, too caught up in the sight of him to worry about what his focused attention could mean for me, and more importantly, Mom.

I feel some kind of tug in my chest, like an invisible thread in my ribcage. Then another sound.

_Arsurh, dejka._

The same not-quite-right, exciting feeling zips down my back. _God-language?_ I press my thoughts back at him. _I don’t know what you’re saying. Who are you?_

His eyes stay locked on our hiding-hedge for another moment, and my fear forgotten, I stare right back. _Those eyes…_ There’s something inexplicably magnetic about them. _Is this what a summoned animal feels like?_ I feel like a dog that Briatte would beckon to—ready to run over and do as I’m commanded. _But there’s something more, isn’t there?_ Not all gods have blue eyes, and definitely not blue eyes like _that_.

I’d wished I had my mother’s brown eyes, despite their rarity in Thundria. _Something to mark me as the son of someone, and not just some weird, not-human kid that no one would miss if he disappeared._ But now, looking deep into the eyes of this god, I feel the strangest surge. _I am the son of someone._ And I think I know why I feel drawn to him.

Finally, his gaze breaks away, travelling over the land. _His land,_ I realize. As much as I know how destructive the gods are, how much their greed and wrath has harmed Thundria, I can’t help being just a little impressed. _What would it be like to command so much, and so many? To be master of your own fate, rather than part of something greater than yourself._ My eyes are still glued to him as I think, _There’s surely nothing greater than him._

Then he’s gone, in a flourish of fur and silk. All I see is his swath of silvery-white hair disappearing around the side of the manor. Mom waits a few moments, silent, and then steps out from behind the purple hedge.

“Clowd,” she murmurs, her voice seeming really insubstantial in the air, still lingering with the crackling energy of that man. _Man? Do they call gods men and women?_

“Mom, was…” I wet my lips, and feeling my certainty falter. _Was it? Am I just imagining stuff because I’ve never seen a real god?_ “Was… that my father?”

“What? No, of course not.”

I would have believed her. I would have believed her if I didn’t catch the way her breath came in just a fraction quicker than the last, if I didn’t notice how her hand fluttered up to touch her hair in a gesture so like Fiyr, and if I couldn’t tell that the sweat dampening her hairline and neck was more than just left over from her performance. I don’t actually like knowing when people lie, even if it comes in handy sometimes, because then it means _I_ have to lie and pretend I didn’t catch them.

“Oh,” I say, and look away. “He just… looked like me.”

“You look a bit like a god,” Mom admits softly, seeming just a hair too quick to change the subject. “But didn’t you say that white hair isn’t weird at court?”

I nod. “Yeah, apparently that Blessing that lets everyone have triplets makes the hair colours get scrambled. There’s a little girl at Thundria, Ditanella—her hair is gold and black.”

Mom _ooh_ s, and I’ve almost forgotten about her quick lie. I don’t think I’m going to forget about that god for a long time, though, and as we continue to make idle chitchat, I find myself wishing he might pop around the corner again. My gaze wanders, and soon enough Mom says she has to go back in.

I wave goodbye, then pull myself up the wall. _Would my dad be impressed if he saw me?_ I wonder suddenly. _Shut up, Clowd, that’s stupid. He zips around on soul-paths and could probably crush the whole castle in one fist. I don’t think he’d be knocked flat if he saw you jump a wall._ Still, I can’t help putting a little more effort into how I land, arcing out my fingers as I plant a hand on the snow, just in case he can still see me. _A hedge didn’t stop him, why would a wall?_ I think, and try to remember his words. _Deca, arsor or something._ I wish we had a translation book for god-speak like we do Old Thundrian. I could know what he was trying to tell me.

As I head back to the tree-line, unlooping Sir Fluffyhooves’s lead, I can’t stop myself from casting one last look, back at the high, peaked rooves of the mansion, and wondering what kind of life it would be to command that power. _I want to see him again,_ I think. _I want to know how he lives. And I want to know what he was trying to tell me._

_Father. Dad._

I test it out. I don’t know exactly, whether it’s weird or not, but it’s _new_. And I’m interested. _Tomorrow,_ I decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you like Clowd’s POV so far. I’m very excited for everyone to read his main plotline in this book!
> 
> ~Akila


	5. Chapter 4 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya everyone! I’m glad everyone is enjoying Clowd so far, hehe. Like I said, he’s been so much fun to write and I’m really pleased with how his storyline came out, so please leave a comment telling me what you think of this AU-y arc!!
> 
> And as always, enjoy!

Chapter 4 - Clowd

I wake up just before dawn, as planned.

I can’t tell for _sure_ that it’s dawn, since there aren’t any windows in the squires’ wing, but the sun-tracker that I got last year at the Sun Rocks’s trade fair has its little needle pointed just before the half-sun mark, which the man who sold it to me said meant dawn. I don’t totally trust it; I haven’t wound it up in a few months, so it might be off.

Either way, I don’t want to miss my chance, so I slip out of bed and quickly tug my tunic over my head. I ignore the comb on my dresser and run my hand through my hair, tugging on the knots until they slip out, then grab my over-clothes and boots and start edging toward the entrance of the castle. Sir Peld, the elder, is on guard, but he’s fast asleep, head tilted up at the ceiling as he snores. I take a tentative step into the throne room, on alert for any soft _thud_ that might signal a footstep or a near-inaudible creak of someone’s door opening. When silence reigns, I speed up a little and then disappear through the oak doors.

The after-midnight patrol shouldn’t be back for another hour if my sun-tracker’s not too off, so I relax a little as I jog over the leaves to the squires’ stables. I came up with a cover last night, in case I _do_ get caught, but when I don’t hear anything except my own feet and breath, and when I don’t smell anything except the horses and the snow, I’m certain I won’t need to use it.

I ride Sir Fluffyhooves down to the forest floor, then nudge him faster until we near a gallop. The ride to the outer border is gonna take hours if I don’t set a fast pace from the start. A creamy dawn streaks the indigo sky, the sun outpacing me as I fly through the forest. The trees blur as I skirt villages and chart as quick a course as I can without riding directly into a lake.

I can feel the air change as the sun rises. Something about the texture; like it’s just a little lazier and heavier on my face. I don’t know if it’s because of the time or the heat, but it’s welcome anyway after an hour of stinging winds.

I get to the manor before the sun reaches the trees. The pale rays gleam on the beetle-sleek shingles, and I shield my eyes for a moment as I ride up to the wall. I can see the main entrance, way off to the left of me, but the main doors seems vast and imposing all of a sudden. Instead, I nudge Sir Fluffyhooves to the right, where the estate’s land eventually ends. _It’s closer than the door, anyway,_ I tell myself. _I’m not scared of a house._

Still, I try not to brush against any of the lower-branched trees as I make my way around the wall. It’s been a while since I was here; I never take this route to visit Mom since it would require a round trip, practically over to Rivier. The wall abruptly turns and folds out to the lawless lands a little ways, and then finally meets the wall of the manor itself. I follow that wall, trying not to look up and acknowledge how _looming_ it is. I get further and further from the border with no sign of the manor ending, until I suddenly reach the back.

I’m a little startled to see wide-open fields beyond it. I would have expected more forest, but it looks like a giant farm—I catch a waft of manure and I think I can hear the lowing of cows. But I’m not here for the cows, so I ignore the sight of snow-covered fields, the distant farm structure, and the trees that lie beyond that, instead turning my attention to the back wall of the manor.

A little way in the distance, I spot what I’m guessing are stables. Closest to me, though, is a small courtyard of sorts. It’s bordered by flapping lines of laundry and I spot a human woman leaving a small building that looks like it was tacked onto the manor with her arms hooked under a hamper full of damp clothes. I’m startled to see her; I assumed the manor would be silent this early in the morning. I pull Sir Fluffyhooves back behind the house a bit and listen, holding my breath, to see whether or not she spotted me.

All I hear is her faint whistling and the click of clothespins as she adds the clothes to the line, then the crackling of fire. Still, I wait a few minutes after her sounds fade before I round the side of the house. The clothes sway in the morning breeze, drying slowly from the heat coming off the firepit in the middle of the courtyard. The human woman is gone, and I approach the small building that she came from. _Maybe I can talk to the god-toys instead._

I came here planning to try to actually talk to my father, but in the light of the morning, that plan seems stupider and stupider every passing second. _He doesn’t even speak my language. Even if he does recognize me, what then? What if he tries to kill me or something?_ Doubt flickers through me. _I know he seemed at ease yesterday, but what if he decides that I’d be some kind of embarrassment to him and wants to get rid of me…?_ Even just imagining that kind of rejection makes old insecurities rage back to life. _I don’t care! I don’t care what he thinks! I’m here anyway, so fuck him._

Taking a deep breath, I survey the back of the manor.

_Even if I don’t see my father, I can take the opportunity to find out more about the gods,_ I decide. Maybe this time I’ll be the one scribbling vague and unhelpful notes in the margins of encyclopedias.

I dismount Sir Fluffyhooves and lead him around to the back of the small attachment. There’s no door or window, so unless someone comes walking around it, they won’t find him. I bind his lead to the copper downspout, then with a quick pat to his flank, sneak back around the side. There’s still no sign of the woman I saw before, and I feel bold enough to put a hand on the paint-flecked door to push it open.

Warm air cradles my face, the indoors heated by the torches on the wall and lit by small, foggy windows ringing the top of the attachment. It smells strongly of human bodies as well, and the faint undercurrent of the sweet smell I’m now associating with gods. I hover in the entrance, listening for the sounds of humans deeper in the building. This room seems to be some kind of multi-purpose, transition room; crates are piled high along the far wall, stray bits of hay, dirt, and even scattered papers and scraps of food litter the floor. My nose wrinkles a little at the uncleanliness of it all, but when no one shows up to catch me, I take another furtive step into the room.

As I do, I catch a smell wafting from the doorway off to my left that leads into the manor proper. _Butter. Spices. Meat._ There’s a faint sizzling sound, too, like something wet being dropped into a hot pan. _That must lead to the kitchens._ Before I can think better of it, I’m in movement, crossing the silent room and reaching a narrow hallway. Light and sound spill from a big archway to my right, and after casting a curious glance at the end of the hallway and the other doors that line it, I turn into the kitchens.

It’s a stark contrast to the deserted peace of the courtyard and the transition room; light, heat, sound, smells, and movement all mix in one roiling chaos of food preparation. I’m frozen in the doorway, staring at the dozens of humans as they move to and from ovens, stoves, expansive countertops, and sinks, buckled under the weight of massive pots or wiping their floured hands on aprons. I hardly feel real looking at all of them; nobody notices me, too focused on their work as they knead, stir, crimp, dust, and drizzle.

“Who are you?”

Well, I’ve been noticed. I spin, instinctively backing up like I’m going to be grabbed and thrown out for intruding, but rather than some hulking knight (of the kitchens?), it’s a little pig-tailed girl who stares up at me with big, curious, mud-brown eyes.

“I’m—” I fumble for some fake name in case Mom’s mentioned me. _What are you doing, Clowd?! You should leave!_ “Um, I’m Fi—Filip.”

She cocks her head. “Are you a new employee?” Then she sticks out her hand. A shiny smear of something catches the light. “I’m Delilah.”

“Del! Keep drying dishes!” An older woman’s voice rings out and the little girl jumps, then retracts her offer of a sticky handshake and turns to leave me.

“Bye, Filip!” Then she’s gone, disappearing back into the storm of cooking.

I stumble back into the hallway, needing to breathe in non-bacon-y air. _This was a bad idea._ Just as I’m thinking that, another god-toy appears in the archway leading to the kitchens. I backpedal more, further away from the transition room, but far from trying to get past me, she puts her hands on her wide hips and regards me with sharp hazel eyes.

“Del says you’re a new employee,” she says, and my mouth opens and closes.

_What am I supposed to tell her?_ “No, I…”

Her eyes narrow. From her middling age and ramrod posture, I’m guessing I won’t be so lucky as to be saved by one of her superiors calling her back. I think she’s in charge.

“Where’d you come from, boy?” Her tone isn’t unkind, but I know that telling her I’m a half-god Thundrian looking for his father isn’t gonna go over well.

“I—I got lost,” I say feebly. _Really, really lost. Great. Perfect excuse._

“Better get going before the gods get any ideas about putting you under ‘em,” she snorts. “And don’t be poking around where you shouldn’t, you hear me? Door’s over there.”

She points back toward the transition room that I came from. As she does, I catch sight of a mark on the side of her round bicep; at first I think it’s a mole or a birthmark, but it’s too precise and dark. It’s more like a doodle, but on skin; an ink-black rendering of an unfamiliar symbol. Two leaves—or maybe feathers?—stuck together at one end and both angled up slightly. _A tattoo, like mercenaries have._ Then she lowers her arm, gives me an expectant look, and disappears back into the kitchens.

I blink. _What was that?_ But there’s no time to speculate; I should get out of here before I find another, less-friendly god-toy. _This was a terrible idea._ Just as I’m about to hurry out, back to the courtyard, and gallop off on Sir Fluffyhooves, I hear footfalls. The sound is immediately familiar; they’re heavier and distant enough that they should have been almost inaudible if they were human feet.

_A god._ I freeze again, then flatten myself against the wall as if it’s going to make me invisible. A shadow blocks out the end of the hallway, nearing with each passing moment. I debate making a run for it. My heart jumps into my throat when the torchlight finally illuminates the form. _It’s him!_

_He’s wearing Shodawes-purple,_ is the only coherent thought I can form. It’s a thick, rich velvet purple robe that pools on the ground behind him as he sweeps down the too-small hallway toward me. His frosty-gaze is fixed on me and I cower. _Too late now._

_Dejka_.

I hear it again.

Then he stops in front of me and I peek up at him, trying not to tremble. His looming face is almost disconcertingly perfect up close. I usually don’t like getting this close to people; it’s gross to see all the little hairs, blemishes, and oil. The weirdest relief washes over me looking at him, though; his nose is curved in a slight concavity, his cheekbones rest high on his face at the same angle on both sides, and his skin is as undisturbed and uniformly white as fresh-fallen snow.

“Son.”

I jump a little at the single word, then my brain catches up. _He_ does _speak my language!_ I can feel my eyes widening and before I can think, I say, “Dad?”

His head tilts a tiny bit and I try to pry myself off the wall.

“My son,” he repeats. The words are a little mangled in his low, melodious voice, but recognizable all the same. “Are my son, you.”

Despite the order, a wave of relief crashes over me. _He knows me._ “I’m your son. I’m Clowd.”

“Clowd,” he repeats, and then aloud, for the first time. “Dejka.”

_Is that my name? Or does it mean ‘son’?_ I wonder, then echo, a little self-consciously, “Desh-ka.”

Then he laughs, low and warm as rolling thunder, and lays a hand on my shoulder. I try not to jump, again, because I’m kind of scared of him, still, but when he doesn’t throw me at the wall or anything, I relax a little.

“You are where,” he says, ‘where’ bursting out much more intensely than the other two words in that sentence.

I blink, trying to untangle what he’s saying. _I’m where. Is that a question? Is he asking me where I live?_ “A kingdom,” I answer uncertainly, then turn and point down the hall at where I came from. “In the forest.”

My father nods, then smiles. “Clowd. My son, far from me. Why!”

I’m beginning to think that gods ask questions by shouting the word, and after my heart recovers from his unexpectedly sharp tone, I try to think of how to answer him. “I live with my family.”

“Not with me,” he adds, then scratches his hairless chin with two slender fingers. Each nail is an even, smoothed white crescent. I think of Samn’s ragged, often bloody cuticles, and feel a pang of relief. “Family?”

_Not a word he knows?_ “Uh… like, mother, father, brother, sister,” I explain.

“Ah!” he exclaims. “Kin.”

“Kin!” I agree, then laugh. _For some scary, evil god he’s kind of… goofy._

“You and kin are me,” he says thoughtfully. “No. You and me are kin.”

I nod, tentatively smiling.

“You and—no, you and me are not…” His perfect, pale brows furrow slightly, then his face smooths again and he falls silent, looking at me with an odd sort of intensity.

Less than a second later, images appears in my mind. I’m looking at myself, an unhappy version of myself standing in a forest. Then another picture, again of myself, sitting at a long table next to the man in front of me with food piled high. I’m laughing and talking with him and shadows in the background flit around us, unseen.

_What…?_ I’m taken off-guard by this new ability. _Blessed Starlaxi_ — _if I’m half-god, can I also, just… send people images with my brain?!_ My father’s regarding me expectantly, and I quickly try to guess at what he’s telling me. _I’m sad in the forest and happy sitting with him at a table._

“I can’t…” I stammer. “I can’t live with you.”

“Kin,” he repeats, looking a little concerned and says, “ _We_ are kin,” as if he’s just remembered the word, then adds, “Live with your kin.”

_Leave Thundria? Is he asking me to come live with him? But I’m only half-god!_ Still, at the memory of my previous fear that he would think I was an embarrassment and kill me, I can’t help laughing. _He wants me to live with him like a god?_ “I—that’s…” I swallow. “I don’t know. I have to think.”

_I can’t just give up everything I’ve ever known and disappear to go live somewhere that I’ve never known._ But… isn’t that what Fiyr did?

My father nods. “Yes. Big matter. You will think and I will wait, _yes!_ ”

“Yes,” I agree. _I guess he’s just doing what any father would do._ I think of the images he transmitted to me. _He thinks I’d be happier in here, with him._ My first instinct is to disregard it; he doesn’t know my life in Thundria. But… I think of my argument with Fiyr from earlier, then of the image of me frowning, standing in a bunch of trees. _Is he right? Am I unhappy in Thundria? Would anyone miss me if I disappeared…?_ Fiyr and Samn would be relieved to not have to deal with me, I think. Cindra might be sad but everyone likes her, so it’s not like I’m her only friend. Same is true for Faern.

I start to back up a little. _I have a lot to think about, I guess._

My father tilts his head at me, then smiles. Just like everything else, it’s perfectly polished and symmetrical, a far-cry from one of Cindra’s lopsided grins. As I give him an awkward little wave and start to head back toward the transition-room and the line of laundry, I reflect on the odd relief that his face inspires. It’s nice to talk to someone without fixating on how their sweat smells and the patterns of the veins in their eyes.

_Would I really have a place with him…?_ I wonder. As I untie Sir Fluffyhooves’s lead and swing myself back on top of him, the conversation with my father seems almost unreal. _I’m only half-god, though._ Self-consciousness flashes in me. _Does he see me as gross and crude as I… see everyone?_

But he didn’t seem to be recoiling from me, and there was no hint of disgust in his gaze when he looked at me. Just joy. _He actually cares about me. He doesn’t even know me, but he cares about me._ The thought makes my stomach flip. _That’s what fathers are supposed to do, Clowd,_ I remind myself, but still… I never thought I’d get to feel it. Fiyr’s more like a lame older brother, and Samn’s hardly motherly. I only get to see my real mom sometimes, but if I lived with my father… I shake my head. _Don’t make a rash decision, Clowd._ The voice sounds like Faern. _I don’t really know anything about how the gods live. Maybe it would suck just as much as Thundria._

What a cheery thought.

I ride back to Thundria, turning the situation over and over again in my head without many results. _Would my father be angry if I said no?_ It’s hard to imagine him, so elegant and polished, actually getting angry over anything. _Disappointed, maybe. He’d still love me, though, I’m sure of it. Maybe I could visit him like I visit Mom._ Excitement thrums through me at the prospect of turning that image he sent me into reality. _What would it be like to live as a god?_

When I return to the castle, Fiyr’s angry. As usual.

 _Here comes laundry duty,_ I think, crossing my arms as he storms over to me. I haven’t even gotten the chance to strip off my over-clothes when he confronts me, in the middle of the throne room to let everyone at court watch us argue.

“Where have you been?!” he demands, then lowers his voice. “A patrol found your trace by the outer border.”

I roll my eyes, which further incenses him. “I was just visiting Mom.”

“And you didn’t think to _tell_ me?” he snaps. “I was so worried! I thought an elf picked you off!”

_Yeah, right._ I meet his gaze coolly. “Nope. Can I go, or do you want to shout at me in front of everybody some more?”

He lets out a tightly constrained breath, almost a hiss, then grabs at his own hair with one hand. “Clowd, you need to tell me when you go visit your mom, okay? I know you miss her, but I had no idea where you were.”

I fight another eye roll. _What, I disappeared for four hours and he thought I was dead? Does he think I can’t take care of myself?_ It’s not the first time I’ve thought it, but this time it’s accompanied by, _My dad would probably let me do my own thing. He trusts me to make my own choices._

“Uh-huh,” I say.

Fiyr’s mouth tightens, then he shakes his head. “Go gather up the squires’ laundry baskets. Maybe a few chores will teach you to go running off.”

_There it is._ I don’t argue. _Anything would be better than being stuck with my uncle, who doesn’t trust me to do_ anything _, and washing Sewif’s socks forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter! (and if you’re in Akila-fanfiction-withdrawal, I’m currently publishing canon character crack ship fics (Turning Tail and Catch and Release) on this account)  
> Until the 25th! I remain,
> 
> ~Akila


	6. Chapter 5 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey boys, we’re back in Samn’s POV! I hope everyone enjoys!

Chapter 5 - Samn

“You’ll be in charge of the castle while we’re gone,” I tell Sir Strommer. It’s technically true, though I’m not being completely honest. The queen hasn’t said anything about keeping the court running while we’re away at the Lunar Temple, and I’m not about to tell Sir Strommer that she’s only been half-lucid and that I’m making all the decisions regarding our journey.

He’s one of the few at court that knows how deep Queen Bluelianna’s dysfunction has gone, yet I still can’t stop myself from covering it up as much as I can. The more people assume she’s still running things behind the scenes, the better, which is why I don’t tell him, ‘ _I_ need to you to take charge of the castle while we’re gone.’ Better for him to think the order came from her and I’m just the messenger.

“Right.” He gives me a little salute. “I’ll keep everyone in line.”

Much as I feel like I have to do it all myself, knowing I can rely on Sir Strommer is a huge relief. If Queen Bluelianna is right, and I really am her successor, he’ll be at the top of list for my captain. _Which will be in a decade,_ I tell myself, trying not to think of Lady Eie’s grim predictions. She didn’t have much for me this morning.

“Thank you,” I say. “We’ll be back mid-afternoon tomorrow, I expect. I’ll send Briatte hunting with Sir Wynnd.”

“I can go find him for you,” Sir Strommer offers, and I immediately open my mouth to refuse. He gives me a look. “Let me. You seem like you haven’t slept in days.”

I don’t tell him that the queen’s fixation on sharing dreams with the Starlaxi and every tiny way that things are falling apart behind closed doors is making me more and more sure that Thundria’s problems are just beginning. I just nod and swallow down my anxieties. _I need more coffee._ I’m only halfway through the morning; Fiyr’s been on edge all morning after Clowd’s bed was empty and the dawn patrol found traces of him by the manors, and I’m trying not to draw any conclusions from that. The queen’s having one of her bad days and I found her asleep at her desk when I checked on her this morning. We need to leave soon if we want to get to the Lunar Temple by the evening, but I want to let her sleep at least a bit.

Sir Strommer gives me a last concerned look, then heads off to find Sir Wynnd. I sigh, rake my fingers through unbrushed hair, and go to the dining hall to get Briatte. I find her sitting with Sewif and her brother, all chattering away like nothing’s wrong at all. _Sewif’s going to need his knight’s exams soon,_ I notice. I don’t know when it happened, but his pointed little face grew into a young man’s and though he’s still quite short, he’s got an assurance in his movements that was lacking a few years ago. _Is the queen up to it?_

“Briatte!” I say instead. She swallows quickly and swings her leg over the bench.

“Hey, Lady Schorme. What’s on for today?”

Looking at her sitting with her fellow squires, typical and unassuming, I feel the strangest surge of jealousy. _I wish I could go back to not… not this. But there’s nothing to be done, and the court’s relying on me. Don’t let on that anything’s wrong._ “The queen and I are journeying to the Lunar Temple so you’ll be hunting with Sir Wynnd.”

“Okay, great!” she says, then quickly settles back down to shovel the rest of her breakfast into her mouth.

“Am I coming?” Sewif’s perked up.

_The queen didn’t say anything about…_ At the prospect of Sewif, and worse, _Sir Teyl_ , seeing the queen in her current state, and whatever her state will be after she speaks to the Starlaxi, I cringe. _She said no when I brought up Briatte and Thorrin. Private business. She’s not going to want Sewif coming, right? I’m not deciding. This is what the queen would say._ “No, not this time.”

He scowls. “It’s been years since she last went. I suppose she’ll be going again next month?”

_Still behaves like a petulant teenager, though._ “That’s the queen’s prerogative, and don’t talk back. You’ll get your Lunar Temple visit just like every other squire.”

He gives me a sullen look and I dig a ragged fingernail into my palm to stop from glowering right back at him. The worst part is, I don’t think he’s wrong. In any normal situation, this would be a perfect opportunity to bring all the squires along for their Lunar Temple visit. But this _isn’t_ a normal situation, and I don’t give a damn whether he comes today or next year when it’s a matter of hiding the queen’s condition from him and his nosy mentor. _Forget keeping Sir Strommer in the dark, if_ Liang _knew the queen was falling apart he’d stage a coup himself._

I give Sewif a last stare, then head out of the dining hall to get a mug of coffee on my way to the queen. As I go, I hear Briatte say something pacifying, which further irritates me. _For the Starlaxi’s sake, he’s eighteen. He shouldn’t need_ my _squire dealing with his little tantrum just because we’re not bringing him along._

Once I’ve drunk the sought-after coffee, I check in again with Sir Strommer and Sir Wynnd. The latter is excited to have a squire for the day and I remember training with him every so often when the queen’s duties pulled her away. The memory of training with the queen makes something in my stomach ache, but I push it away. _Not the time._ I’m going to see Fiyr before I go, I decide, to make sure that Clowd’s back, of course.

I find him leaning against the wall next to the castle’s doors, his pale features twisted into a scowl. Clowd’s trace lingers. _He must have just gotten back_.

“Is he safe?” I ask first.

Fiyr nods, then as his eyes meet mine his brows relax a little and he gives me a half-smile. “Yeah, but…” He grimaces, then pulls off the wall and we walk to the kitchen. “He’s acting weird. Weird _er_. I don’t know. Sorry, I know you’ve got… a lot to deal with already.”

_Well, he’s not wrong._ “You can still talk to me.”  
“I know.” He gives my hand a squeeze and then ducks into the kitchen. Probably to get coffee; the Starlaxi knows we need it. I wait for him by the doorway, still trying to kill time to give the queen a chance to get a bit more sleep.

Instead, a different family member pops out. “Samn!”

“Hey, Mom,” I say. I think she can hear the exhaustion in my voice, because she looks me over with a worried expression. I force a smile for her benefit, but it feels fake on my face.

“Whit told me you were headed to the Lunar Temple?”

“Yeah. The queen—the queen wants to share dreams with the Starlaxi,” I say, hoping she won’t press me on _why_. _Well, you see, Mom, our lifeline and the person supposed to take care of all of us is in the middle of a bit of a crisis. I don’t know when or if she’ll recover and the future of our entire kingdom might be in jeopardy. And yes, I did get one of those blueberry muffins you made. They were really good, thank you._

She just nods and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. “Safe travels, then. Have you gone to see Lady Fennen and Lady Plait yet?”

I bite off a curse when I remember that I was supposed to do that last night. _I have too much on my plate, and now things are slipping off the table. Dammit._

My mom gives a little soothing laugh when she see that I’ve forgotten. “We can go together; I wanted to speak with them about caring for Lady Tiall during her pregnancy,” she says, laying a hand around my shoulders even though it makes her reach up. “It’s alright, Samn. Everyone know you’re working hard.”

I think if I say anything in response, everything’s going to spill out, so instead I keep my mouth firmly shut and nod vaguely. _I hope they don’t. I hope they think I’m putting my feet up every day while the queen keeps everything running._

Once I’ve spoken with the healers and sorted out everything for our journey—luckily, they’re able to get everything together this morning, albeit with some grumbling from Yllowei—there’s nothing to do but rouse the queen. I head to her chambers with an odd sense of apprehension in my stomach, but it’s for nothing; when I open her door, she’s awake, dressed, and relatively groomed.

“Samn! Is everything ready?” she asks, standing from her seat at her _clean_ desk. _What? She must have just organized it._ I definitely remember seeing her asleep on top of stray papers with a lock of gray hair precariously close to the inkpot.

I’m a little suspicious of her sudden clearheaded-ness, but I nod and give her a quick bow. “Yes, Your Majesty. Here are the packs from Lady Fennen, and I put Sir Strommer in charge of the court while we’re gone.”

She frowns a little like she’s trying to remember something and I feel a tingle of unease. “Was… Should we have brought along Sir Teyl and his squire?”

I falter. “I… I told Sewif that he could come along next time. Should I—”

“No, no, we won’t go back on that,” she says, swift and decisive. _Like she used to be._ I try to shove back the unfurling hope. _She’s acting normal_ now _, but that’s no guarantee of anything._ “Let’s get going right now, I’d like to be back before tomorrow evening.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I say again and we leave, collecting our over-clothes and Lazuli and Dune along the way. It’s past dawn, the sky already a crisp, winter blue, but the queen doesn’t scold me for letting her sleep. Rather, she keeps up a brisk flow of conversation, jumping from the unrepaired dam to the state of Briatte’s squirehood to how the United life is treating me.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” I say, unable to help a smile, thinking of Fiyr. It’s too easy to let my guard down when she seems so… alert. “It’s nice to have someone to rely on.”

She shoots me a wry look. “I feel the same way. That I can rely on _you_ , I mean.”

The silence lulls comfortably and I drop behind the queen and her horse as we round a tight bend in the road. _Was she ever United…? I suppose that would have been before Sir Strommer’s generation, if her sister was his mother._ Though I’ve never had it outright confirmed to me, I’m pretty sure the Blessings have an anti-aging affect on monarchs’ bodies. For the Starlaxi’s sake, King Tahliorius is a decade, maybe more, older than the queen and he’s still at every Gathering, looking just as high and mighty. I side-eye the queen, noting her posture and the creases in her face. _She’s just fine._ I look back to the path in front of us.

 _Wait, why is she taking this road…?_ It’s about as quick as the other, but I’ve only ever known her to use the slightly-more-direct one. This will take us along the cliffs of the Rivien sea.

“We came here to spar, do you remember?” she asks.

_Of course,_ I think. “Yeah.” It was for one of my exams. No-holds-barred, swords and life-force together… It hardly mattered that I could only manipulate the existing sand; the shores were covered in such a thick layer that it was as if I could summon it from thin air. The queen constructed massive creations of ice out of the water. I knew she had to go easy on me, but it was still a heart-racing fight.

“It was a pleasure to train you,” she says mistily, and despite her words, I feel another prickle of unease. “I know the court will be safe with you.”

It gives me the worst feeling that I’m, more and more, becoming the only person she trusts. _Don’t be stupid,_ I tell myself, but I shiver despite my over-clothes. _Why didn’t she make Sir Strommer captain, then…? Why does she dig her heels in when Lady Fennen argues about that stupid prophecy?_

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I say softly, knowing from too many other failed attempts that the queen won’t hear of any disagreement about who will wear the crown next. It hasn’t helped me adjust much to the idea.

“I was scared too,” she murmurs. “The King of the Sun died young, for a king. I was thrust onto the throne and had to adapt.”

_Just like I’m doing now,_ I think, curling back into my over-clothes when the wind buffets along the cliff. _Well, maybe I’ll be fine then._ _It can’t get harder than this._ I swallow down my anxieties and reach for a reason to change the subject when she gives me another long, misty-eyed look over her shoulder.

“Er… why do you need to visit the Starlaxi all of a sudden, Your Majesty?” I ask.

“Mm.” I can’t see her face as she’s riding on the path directly in front of me, but her voice has darkened when she says, “I need answers.”

She pauses for so long that I wonder if I should press further, or just let it drop, before she finally says,

“They led me to believe Sir Cawle would be different. They were wrong.” She shakes her head once, then continues, her voice carrying back to me on the again-howling wind. “I need to know _why_. And I must seek clarification on the prophecy.”

I think of the truth-telling and what Fiyr said about my father. _Does that have something to do with it? But how do little personal-prophecies help him ‘save the kingdom?’_ Should I tell the queen? I watch her as the path finally levels off, moving away from the Rivien sea, and I see her face grow dejected. _There’s more wrong than just that, I know there is._ But if I’m right, and I really am the only person at court that she’s letting now, what could she be hiding from even me?

We cross through the solstice pavilion without much fanfare. The queen ignores the crackling electricity of the Thundrian pillar, even when we ride close enough to be touched by the flickering, tiny tongues of lightning, and so I follow suit. It feels oddly… irreverent to pass by such monuments with no acknowledgement, so, feeling a bit silly, I give each a little nod as we pass.

Finally, we reach the swirling, wind-ensconced gray stone of the Wynnder pillar, and cross onto their territory. Like we did all those years ago— _crossing the soulpath, first blood, Fiyr’s face in the fire-light, the battle after_ —the queen immediately kicks her horse into a full gallop, hurtling into the long grass without any warning. I follow her, digging my heels into Dune’s flank, and catch my breath in the cold wind, eyes streaming.

We’re only fifteen minutes deep in their land when the patrol finds us.

The queen stops, perfectly unruffled despite the ride, and I come to her side, panting and wild-haired. They’re headed up by the captain of the guard, a short, dark man that would probably be unremarkable even in a crowd of villagers if I didn’t already recognize him. _Sir Futt._ At one side, a burly man with a flinty gaze that I think is either Sir Ayer or Sir Kelaw, along with a squire of at least sixteen.

“Greetings, Sir Futt,” the queen says, as measured and composed as I’ve ever known her to be. “We’re travelling to the Lunar Temple.”

Despite the queen’s attitude, a tight feeling in my stomach tells there’s going to be trouble. Sir Futt raises his chin a hair and replies, “No, you won’t be. Not while the tyrant lives.”

Cold-water-dread settles in my stomach. _He’s dead_ , I want to snap at him. The queen has obstinately refused to tell any of the other kingdoms what happened that night—or at the very least, the official story on what happened. Years have dragged on with no abatement of hostility from Wynnd and Shodawa, and yet she insists. Lady Fennen certainly hasn’t argued the point, I’ve had plenty of other things to manage, and no one else has enough authority or misplaced confidence to raise the issue.

“That is Thundria’s concern.” At the captain’s refusal, the queen’s voice has dropped to an icier tone than any wind over the moor. “Wynnd does not regulate our access to the Lunar Temple.”

“It’s across our territory,” Sir Futt answers, and though I see a gleam in his eye, he keeps a tight lid on his anger. The same cannot be said for Sir Kelaw, whose temper his captain almost seems to sense as Sir Futt holds up a hand to silence him without even looking back to see that the other man had been about to speak. Sir Kelaw falls silent and the captain continues, “His Majesty will not permit sympathisers of tyrants to set foot on our land. If that means that you have no access…”

He shrugs.

“His _Majesty_ knows very well that Thundria has no other means to reach the temple,” the queen snaps back, and I notice her fist tightening on Lazuli’s reins. I glance at the squire, feeling the same nerves writhing in my belly. _We can’t fight them. Our only chance is to tell them the truth of what happened to Braukkin, no matter what it does to our reputation._

“Then you should have thought more about your decision to permit him to live,” Sir Futt replies.

The queen places a head on _Winter Wrath_ ’s pommel in a swift movement, and I catch sight of frost rippling up her arm, crusting on the fleece of her over-clothes. In an instant, I size up Sir Kelaw, Sir Futt, and the nervous squire, and then put a hand on the queen’s arm.

“Your Majesty,” I whisper. Her gaze doesn’t shift from its fixation on the three men who have all mirrored her action, preparing for violence. “This is not what the Starlaxi would want. We should go.”

“I will not allow them to force our hands like they tried to three years ago!” the queen hisses, still staring at Sir Futt. I shake my head desperately, then look at the captain as well. He won’t escalate this unnecessarily, I don’t think, but if the queen insists on a fight, I have no doubt he’ll match her. His face is unreadable, but I can almost feel the way his life-force has risen to the surface of his skin, ready to lash out at us.

“If the Starlaxi doesn’t intend for us to visit their temple, then we won’t, no matter what the Wynnders say or what blows we inflict,” I reason quietly, turning back to the queen.

The queen freezes, and the frost on her sleeve turns back to moisture, then nothing at all. For a second, I have no idea what she’s going to do, then she removes her hand from _Winter’s Wrath_. Sir Futt relaxes as well, though Sir Kelaw keeps watching us with dark eyes. I meet his gaze with a hint of challenge, then turn back to the queen.

“Remind your king of the need for the Starlaxi’s guidance from _all_ the kingdoms,” the queen announces coldly, sweeping a blue stare over each of them. The squire looks faint. “If he truly believes that we have… _strayed_ , then he accomplishes nothing toward his stated ends if he prevents Thundria from seeking the advice of the Starlaxi.”

With that, she whirls around and swings herself atop Lazuli. Sir Futt makes no move, just watching us. I look at him, feeling very unsettled by the idea that this established, authoritative man is somehow my equal. And because I can’t resist it, no matter how shaken I feel by this whole ordeal, as we ride off I toss over my shoulder, “May the Starlaxi light your path.”

I peek at the queen to see if she’s going to reprimand me for my snarky comment, but her gaze is fixed straight ahead. Taking a shallow breath, I ask, “What now?”

“Now we return,” she answers, and kicks Lazuli into a brisk canter. I match her pace, yet-more anxiety rolling in my belly. _I need more coffee._

“And the advice you sought…?” I ask.

“I have my answer.”

“What? But—”

“You were right, Samn. The Starlaxi has nothing to say to me. They were wrong. They have no power. They put my kingdom in danger.”

I shake my head. “My queen, you can’t possibly—”

“We are at war with the stars, Samn,” she says, as clear-headed as I’ve ever seen her.

_No, no, no, this isn’t what I wanted!_ “But surely if you speak to King Tahliorius, tell him that Braukkin is—”

“No. Sir Futt told me I brought this on Thundria, and he is right,” the queen murmurs, hardly to me at all. “And the Starlaxi has brought _this_ on themselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed! I’ve been trying to write less bloated chapters this book, so hopefully the punchier, faster-paced style works better for folks. Please leave me a comment, and I’ll see you on November 30th!  
> ~Akila


	7. Chapter 6 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s up lads? I’m officially gainfully employed. Your boy got a job. Enjoy!

Chapter 6 - Samn Schorme

The court is furious.

Even Sir Strommer, usually so steady in the face of turmoil, paces up and down the throne room, gaze dark and troubled. I stand firmly at the queen’s side as the court batters her with questions, even as I want to shrink back to my room and press the heels of my palms into my eyes until I stop seeing the queen’s face as she said _They were wrong_. Lady Fyrra’s got her arms tightly crossed, Sir Wynnd’s hands flick and twist like he can’t contain the movement, and I catch little flares of life-force here and there as fearful energy brings it to the surface of so many.

“They _can’t_ have,” Lady Peilte snaps again. “King Tahliorius wouldn’t be so dishonourable.”

The queen shakes her head. “This is not his doing. It is the doing of the Starlaxi.”

“How could their will be to prevent communication?” Cindra asks from the edge of the crowd, glancing at Yllowei for support.

I stand, stiff and silent, watching them all. _They’re going to know._ I can’t bring myself to try to drag the queen back to her chambers, to hurry her behind closed doors so no one catches on, but… My mother catches my eye in the crowd and for a moment I feel like a kid again, like I want to run into her arms and bury my face in her skirts so I don’t have to see the uglier side of faith and power ever again.

But Faern, standing with Sir Fere, is already acting too old to do that, so it wouldn’t do for her adult child to be behaving _more_ childishly than her. Instead, I stay rooted to the ground at the queen’s side and wait until the questions and outrage inevitably peters out. To my dismay, many patrols that I’d organized this morning are going out, speaking in hushed tones about the altercation with Wynnd. _Great. Now it’ll be the topic of gossip for a week._

I eye the queen, feeling hunger stab at my belly, but she turns and heads for her chambers without faltering. Making a mental note to try to bring something to her later, I head for the kitchen. The last people with opinions to offer on our failed mission follow me until it’s clear we’re both done talking. I tune them out until they lose interest and finally, finally let out a long breath. _Every time,_ I think, cracking my knuckles nervously. _Every time I think things can’t get worse…_

_It’s not their will to keep us from speaking to them,_ I tell myself. _It’s just a bad situation brought about by both monarchs’ stubbornness._ Putting the blame even partially on Queen Bluelianna gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I can’t see any other explanation. _King Tahliorius is at fault for not letting us through, regardless of the situation with Braukkin… but if the queen would just tell them he’s dead! She doesn’t need to bring Lady Fennen into it at all, just tell them he’s dead._ And… I can’t help a selfish desire to tell the other kingdoms about Sir Cawle’s betrayal as well, for no other reason than to get the curious stares off my back, to silence the leading questions. But even though the strange circumstances around my appointment have caused a lot of probing comments from the other captains and even some braver knights, I know it’s not worth it. _Putting aside the shadows that would fall on us if the other courts knew that our prisoner died under mysterious circumstances, if they found out that our captain tried to murder the queen and was retroactively unmasked as the murderer of an ex-captain…? It would be chaos._

“Samn.”

I blink, returning to reality, and turn to see Fiyr standing in the doorway of the kitchens. “Oh. Hey.”

“You’ve been staring at that stove for a solid minute,” he comments, coming over to pretend to inspect it with me.

I can’t muster much more than a snort and he gives me a painfully sweet look.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” I whisper. _The Starlaxi is silent and the queen is all too ready to abandon them. King Tahliorius and probably King Naitienne still loathe us for absolutely no reason, but the queen refuses to tell them of Braukkin’s death. Everything is terrible and it feels like I’m the only one who knows._

He puts an arm around me and I can’t help leaning into him, gaze still fixed on the stove. My stomach is still complaining, but the moment Fiyr’s lent me his strength, I can’t pull away. _I just want someone else to do the standing up for a minute…_

“Why don’t you go sit in the hall and I’ll get us lunch?” he murmurs into my hair.

Leaving his arms is really the last thing I want to do, but I’m pretty sure a fainting spell is imminent if I don’t get something to eat, and that would _really_ raise eyebrows. I pry myself off him and with a grateful look, find a table in the dining hall. It’s mostly deserted; getting back to Thundria took long enough that it’s too early for dinner and too late for lunch for the rest of the court. I’m glad; this way, no one sees me slump down at the table and bury my face in my arms.

A few minutes later, Fiyr reappears. In front of me, he sets down two plates with sandwiches on them. I raise my head and squint at them. Pickles, red onions, a lot of cheese, some indeterminate condiment, and a few slices of salami.

“What in the name of the Starlaxi is that thing…?”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, sliding onto the bench across from me. “I used to sneak into the gods’ kitchens when I couldn’t sleep and make this kind of thing. The recipe evolved over a couple years.”

I poke it. “Since when do you not sleep like a log? A log that needs more pillows than I have ever thought poss—”

“It was a long time ago,” he protests.

“The pillow thing was last night.”

Even as he frowns at me, I feel some of my terrible mood dissipate. _I need to figure out how to bottle him so I can add it to my coffee in the morning,_ I think. _Or drizzle it on this horrifying sandwich._

“Just eat, you’ll feel better,” he suggests.

“I think this combination of ingredients will prove fatal,” I say, poking it again.

“Then it’s a good thing Cindra’s been brushing up on her poisons.” Fiyr grins and I have a hard time keeping up the force of my glower. “And teaching them to Clowd, which is… less good.”

I peer at the sandwich suspiciously, then look at him. He looks like a smile is trying to sneak onto his face as he stares right back. I finally take a bite, and can’t help scowling harder. _Damn it._ It’s probably not going to give me much energy, but it’s salty and a bit sweet, a little crunchy and a little chewy, and despite myself, I start to feel better.

“Good, right?”

Smug dick. “It’s fine.”

“That’s a step up from poisonous! I’ll take it.” And he digs into his own sandwich. We eat in silence for a minute until he says, “So what’s wrong?”

My mouthful of cheese with a shred of salami gives me an excuse not to answer for a second, but even after swallowing I haven’t cobbled together anything more intelligent than, “Everything.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Feels like it,” I groan. “The queen’s… still not better. We can’t talk to the Starlaxi, the other kingdoms don’t know Braukkin’s dead…”  
He takes my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze back and finish the sandwich.

“Samnwich,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to say it while you were talking about what’s going on, but…” He looks chagrined.

“Samnwich,” I repeat.

He peeks up at me like I’m about to slap him, and I can’t help an incredulous snort.

“That’s worse than Chowder.”

He gasps. “No it isn’t! At least that has your name in it.”

“What’s going on with Clowd, by the way? Did you ever find out why he was by the manors…?” I don’t say it, but I can’t help wondering if his god half is drawing him back to them. I know he acts like a normal kid most of the time, if older than he should be, but I always had a feeling his other half would crop up someday.

Fiyr looks worried. “Well, he told me why. He might have been lying. But a few days ago, I think he was stealing on a supply run.”

“What?!”

“The other squires were doing first aid with Lady Fennen and Cindra,” Fiyr says, letting out a long sigh. “Then when I checked them after he’d been out hunting, they were lighter.”

“Why’d you check them…?”  
“Because I don’t think this is the first time.”

_Oh no…_ I swallow and cover his pale hand with mine. “If that’s true…”

He grits his teeth. “I know.”

“Gathering’s tomorrow night, and I was going to suggest you bring him, but I don’t know if that’s a good idea now,” I admit.

“It’s probably not,” he agrees, face still creased with worry. “I just… I try so hard, y’know? And he keeps pushing it and I feel like I can’t teach him anything without him arguing or questioning it.”

I nod, hoping my sympathy shows on my face. “He doesn’t seem like an easy squire.”

“You don’t know half of it,” Fiyr groans.

I think I do; his complaints about Clowd are not new, but that’s not a helpful thing to say so I just nod a bit and gently rub his hand with my thumb. “All kids are annoying at that age, aren’t they?”

“Briatte wasn’t.” He eyes me as if it’s my fault my squire behaves herself.

“She’s special, I guess.” And that’s true; she’s not brilliant with her summoning, or her swordsmanship, or her history, but she has a kind of patience and optimism that alternately makes me relieved that she’s my squire and not her brother or Clowd, and ashamed that I’m too weak in that respect to not be regularly flopping onto tables, fighting off exhausted tears.

“I’ll take your plate,” Fiyr offers, already standing.

When Fiyr comes back, I catch him by the arm and tug him over to sit with me.

“You were the one who put me on the late afternoon patrol,” Fiyr laughs as I snuggle into him.

“Well, I contradict that assignment. You’re ordered to stay and cuddle.” I’m prepared to tackle him to the floor, but he gives in and I shift closer, hiding my face in his chest. For a minute, I feel the same safety I did when I was too young to know anything about Sir Cawle or the queen’s stability or secretly-dead-tyrants or _anything_.

…

The solstice comes the next night after a day of near-blizzard weather. Liang insisted on taking Sewif out, and I sent a half-hearted supply run with fleece blankets and cloaks to a nearby village that had been recently hit by the worst of another storm to make sure they were rebuilding okay. Besides that, we all stay tucked up in the castle. The queen, despite yesterday’s lucidity, has retreated to her private chambers and not left all day.

It’s really, really tempting to send someone else to check on her on my behalf; I don’t want to face her myself if she’s going to start talking about how the Starlaxi is trying to punish Thundria, but it’s even less of an option to let someone else see her if she really is in one of her moods. Instead, I rally my courage and bring her some of the soup that my mother reheated for lunch. Winter is the season of meals that were made in triple amounts and then packed into the ice behind the kitchen to be warmed up and eaten later.

The queen opens her door only a crack when I knock, and reaches out with one pale, almost skeletal hand to take the butternut squash soup and the spoon I offer, before retreating with only a whispered thanks. I watch the sealed edge of the door for another few moments, before returning to the library to go offer Briatte help. She’s trying to copy the full list of kings and queens of Thundria without checking in the textbooks, and as I sit, watching her work and waiting to drop hints if she needs them, my thoughts drift back to the queen. _Is silence and secrecy better than speaking openly about how the Starlaxi obviously intends to cut off all communication between us? Better that the court doesn’t see the latter, but…_ I think of her hollow gaze as she took the offered soup.

_What am I going to do when she doesn’t trust me either?_

“Is King Redojo before or after King Whitanco…?” Briatte muses. “Stupid colour names.”

“After,” I answer absentmindedly.

As she continues scribbling, I consider what’s going to happen at tonight’s Gathering. _Will the kings be able to tell the queen isn’t at her best?_ We’ve managed the other Gatherings since Sir Cawle’s betrayal, ignoring questions over what happened and brushing off curious stares, but I sense a shift coming. If word gets back to King Tahliorius of how the queen was acting while we were in Wynnd, and they decide to press their luck… I consider Briatte’s young, unblemished face. _I need to keep her safe. We need to tell them that Braukkin is dead, reputation be damned. Lady Fennen isn’t the one keeping the secret, no matter how the queen tries to use her as an excuse. Med Naos presided over the deaths of dozens of children and no one’s talking about revoking his right to be a healer._ Old, fiery bitterness sears me. _But I know that women can’t afford a single misstep, or their entire competency will be thrown into question._ Then again, it wasn’t incompetency that killed Braukkin.

Hours later, as I ride behind the queen toward the solstice pavilion, I’m still turning it over in my mind. _Naitienne and Tahliorius want Braukkin dead, at least. Won’t it put their animosity to rest if they find out that he’s already buried? If they try another attack, and…_ I can’t finish the thought. Fiyr appears next to me, looking just as concerned as I feel.

“How’s the queen?” he whispers, nudging Blitz perilously close to Dune’s hooves.

“Not much better,” I admit quietly.

“How do you think the Gathering will go?”

“Quickly, hopefully.”

He huffs a bit of a laugh, his breath turning to white steam in the freezing air. “Do you think she’ll tell the other kings about Braukkin’s death?”

“It’s been years.” I shake my head. “What’s changed?”

“Wynnd’s not showing any sign of letting up,” he points out. “I really thought King Tahliorius would let it go, but…”  
“He’s doubling down,” I finish. _He and the queen are both hurting us out of stubbornness. They’re fighting over nothing, and it’s only because of their shortsightedness that Thundria is suffering._ I take a sideways glance at Fiyr, his face pale in the semi-darkness. _If…_ When _I am queen, I’m going to listen to my court,_ I vow. _Lady Flourer, Lady Eie, even me… If I am going to end up as a young, untested, inexperienced queen, I’ll make up for it by listening to the people who are going unheard._

I send a silent prayer to the Starlaxi for them to help the queen see sense.

When we reach the pavilion, I check the Trace to feel the familiar overwhelming flood of life-force from the pillars. It’s been a habit to check the constants of the world, lately. Watching Thorrin and Sewif complain about chores, riding through a village and absorbing their undisturbed lives, and feeling the life-force that pulses inside everyone, steady and unchanging… It all helps ground me.

Which is why I feel a flare of panic when the Trace of the pavilion isn’t utterly blanketed in the pillars’ power. _What…? How?_ It’s an almost choking feeling, like smoke or inhaled water, wrapped in pestilence and rot. _Sickness. Disease._ Shodawa.

I halt at the queen’s shoulder as we come to the edge of the pavilion, and I nearly miss her signal to ride down into the pavilion as I stare at the Shodawes court. They’re already assembled, in huddles of pale, skinny knights and ladies, so few of them that they hardly take up their quarter of the stone.

Worry creeps over me. _Why aren’t the others here…? Because they’re too sick to come, or because they’re…_ I shudder. _Focus on Thundria, Samn._

As the queen and I make our way to the central platform after leaving our horses lashed to trees, I consider the monarchs and their captains.

King Naitienne is stomach-turningly haggard-looking. His face, Shodawes-pale at the best of times, is sickly white in the moonlight. A dark swath of stubble shrouds his jaw, lending him an even more gaunt look, and his green eyes have a glassy, unfocused sheen. Sweat beads on his forehead, blurring the lines of his star. It almost looks like it’s melting despite the frosty air. His captain, Sir Faer, is absent.

I tear my eyes off the Shodawes king’s hunched form and inspect King Tahliorius and King Crukkedaro instead. _They’ve been kings since as long as I can remember… who will succeed them?_ While I’m sure the Nine Blessings keep monarchs physically young enough to continue serving, King Crukkedaro looks like he’s aged twenty years since the last few solstices. His previous imposing stature has shrunk to the same hunched over, curled-in-on-himself posture as King Naitienne. I don’t think it’s sickness that’s done this to him, though. Heart-sickness, maybe.

King Tahliorius, for his part, has kept his regality despite his age. Really, the only sign of his advanced age are the streaks of white and gray in his thin black hair, tightly braided and out of his way. His deep brown skin doesn’t show its wrinkles from this far away, and his dark eyes are as focused and sharp as ever. I used to admire him; he seemed more open to working with other kingdoms than King Crukkedaro and certainly less… tyrannical, bloodthirsty, and child-murdering than Braukkin. Now, though, I have sinking feeling that he’s no better than King Crukkedaro, at least. He’s become fixated on Braukkin, and the futility of his mission only serves to highlight in my eyes how much is in harm’s way because of his determination to force our hands.

I turn my eyes to his captain. Sir Futt, wiry and standing unevenly because of his injured foot. He’s younger than his king, but without the Blessings to slow his aging, he appears to match him in years—in his forties, maybe fifties, I estimate. I wonder if he’ll be the next king of Wynnd; of all the monarchs, King Tahliorius has held the crown the longest and is certainly the oldest. It’s anyone’s guess how many Blessings he has left, though it can’t be much more than two or three. _If Sir Futt was king after him, wouldn’t he be nearly of the age to retire within a decade?_

That’s when I realize the Gathering’s already started and I completely zoned out. _Great. I’m sure I just missed something extremely important._

King Naitienne’s begun to speak, his voice little more than a rasping whisper. I cast my gaze over the crowd, watching as people strain to hear, and then turn back to the king. His black cloak is bunched around his throat, nearly covering his mouth.

“Shodawa has nothing to report. We are faring well in winter,” he whispers.

_That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard,_ I think, temper flaring at the thought of being part of his court. _They’re obviously sick enough that half the court couldn’t come, either too weak or_ dead, _and he thinks it’s a good time to put on a brave front?! He should be begging for help._

But he draws back and motions with one reed-thin arm for the next monarch to speak. Queen Bluelianna takes the opportunity, ignoring King Tahliorius’s half-pace forward.

“Thundria attempted to visit the Lunar Temple and were blocked by Wynnd,” she says with no preamble, any trace of the frailty she displayed earlier gone. “King Tahliorius, your belief that we are harbouring Braukkin has gone too far.”

My heart leaps into my throat. _Is she finally going to tell them?_ Hope that I thought was dead suddenly flutters to life in my chest. _She might not be better, but if she really does take a stand now…_

“Belief is the wrong word, Queen Bluelianna,” he answers coldly. “Do you deny that you keep the tyrant?”

“Yes,” she replies simply and a long-held breath finally leaves me. _She’s telling them._ “Braukkin has been dead for years. Your pursuit of _justice_ was never in question.”

Despite her combative emphasis of _justice_ , I sag with relief. _Finally. Finally. We can put this to rest._

“Dead?” King Tahliorius’s face darkens and his gaze flickers from the queen to his captain, then his court, then back to the queen. “But… how? When?”

She says nothing.

“ _How?_ ” he repeats.

_This is her plan? Silence?_ Still, it’s better than saying ‘our healer broke the code to murder a prisoner that we intended to keep alive indefinitely with no agreement from the queen.’ The queen’s lips stay firmly sealed.

“Are we meant to believe that he was killed years ago and you never told us? Why?” King Tahliorius begins to pace on the small platform.

“He showed us that our mercy meant nothing to him,” she says simply, then folds her arms. I get the feeling that’s as much as she’s going to let slip. _Yeah. He tried to kill our novitiate and joined our traitorous captain to try to depose the queen_.

“I’m glad that you put your court in danger to test that theory,” Wynnd’s king says flatly, and despite the lack of emotion in his voice, his face is tight with anger. “I trust no one was too badly hurt in the conflict?”

The queen says nothing.

_Braukkin didn’t manage much before Cindra incapacitated him and Yllowei tied him up, but Sir Cawle…_ I look up at the queen, her back as straight and gaze as flinty as ever. _How much longer will she be able to put on this appearance of everything being fine? Surely the truth of Braukkin is a good omen._ I don’t dare think she’s better, though.

“Very well,” King Tahliorius says, turning away from the queen and beginning his announcement. “Lady Ashra Fote is expecting the children of our captain, Sir Daede Futt, our squires are progressing well…”

I tune him out, instead casting my gaze over the other courts. Shodawa doesn’t seem to have had much of a reaction to the news about Braukkin, but then again, most of them are half-hidden by their enormous cloaks. The storm of earlier today has long since cleared up and the air is free of snow, but many of them have their collars drawn up to their chins or their hoods swamping their heads. Wynnd, for their part, are staring right back at us. They range from openly hostile (Sir Kelaw) to intensely curious (Sir Newskar). Everyone seems to be taking their cue from the queen, though, and I see Lady Fuor shake her head as Lady Flor murmurs something to her. Fiyr was standing with the aforementioned intensely curious Sir Newskar, and purses his lips when the other knight asks something.

Though I’m glad to see the court rallying behind the queen’s example, I can’t help a feeling of unease. Everyone has been quick to bury Sir Cawle’s treachery, and though I feel the same impulse, he’s not dead. He’s still out there, just not right in front of us. _What if he tries to turn one of the other courts against us? He commanded respect, and I know the other kingdoms still wonder what happened to him. What if he turned up on their door with some tall tale to tell?_

I cast an uneasy look at Rivier’s captain, Lady Fore. She was one of the most invasive in her line of questioning, and I know she doesn’t consider me her equal the same way she did Sir Cawle. If Sir Cawle came along with some silky lie about the circumstances around his exile… I shiver. _Leaving the other kingdoms out of the loop to keep Thundria looking strong might save us from the other kings getting too comfortable in the short-term, but what if Sir Cawle comes back and tricks them into favouring him?_ Surely it’s better to take a hit now than to risk him gaining a sympathetic ear later…? I size up Lady Fore again. _King Naitienne is certainly sickly, and King Tahliorius is old, but…_ I glance at King Crukkedaro who has begun his announcement, his words slow and deliberate, as if he’s having trouble getting them out at all. _If any of us are going to be succeeding our monarchs soon, I think it’s going to be Leaparra Fore._

One kingdom being ravaged by some kind of sickness, another headed by a king who obviously has a souring opinion of us, and a third with a potential next queen who might be susceptible to Tigre’s lies. _Thundria will need all our strength to face the next years. I hope I’m strong enough to save us when the queen can’t anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment!
> 
> ~Akila


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! Got fun news; I made a map for the territories! Go to warriors-kingdoms dot tumblr dot com and find the blog header ‘blog exclusives!’

Chapter 7 - Clowd

“No, you grab, then twist, _then_ pull it down,” I interrupt, batting Cindra’s hands away from my nose. “You’re supposed to kick them or something when you yank their head down.”

She carefully cups my nose again, making the phantom move to twist it, then lowers my head to her knee so she can pretend to break it. “Like that?”

“Yeah, that was perfect,” I declare, breaking away and righting myself. “Now I can show you—” But just as I’m putting up my hands to demonstrate a throat punch on the air in front of me in the healer’s wing, the queen’s magically amplified voice rings through, urging us to the throne room. “Nevermind. It’ll have to wait.” I shoot her an already-exasperated look.

Cindra seems unexpectedly puzzled, though. Usually she’ll give me a knowing smile and I’ll punch her arm, and it’ll be something really stupid like a warning to be on look out around the manors that she got advance information about because she’s some special healer or whatever. This time she doesn’t look like she has any idea what the queen’s calling us into the throne room for.

“Thundria,” the queen begins before we’re even all settled. She stands with Duss and Mauzian next to two young men I don’t recognize. They smell terrible. “Lady Fyrra and Sir Peyelt just returned from a patrol of the Shodawes border and found these two Shodawes knights.”

She motions to the young men. I peer at them. _Shodawes knights!_ I haven’t seen any of those since they attacked the castle a few years ago. _Now I can defend myself, though._ I look for Fiyr, waiting for the signal to attack. When nothing comes, I return to examining them with a huff of disappointment. They’re both skinny as stalks of wheat, tall, and pale as Fiyr and I compared to the Thundrian court, and clothed in the dark neutrals of Shodawes uniforms.

The man on the left has a bit of a mousy-look, with brown hair and a small pointed face. His companion is pretty good-looking, by human standards anyway, with dark hair and a square jaw, if not for the crust of inflamed acne across his chin and forehead that makes my nose flare with revulsion.

“They requested an audience,” the queen says dryly, then turns her sharp gaze on the two now-cowering men. “Well, here we are. Tell us what you were doing on our territory.”

Despite the queen’s tone giving every appearance of her usual self, I’m a little confused as to why she’s doing this on display. Seems more like the kind of thing she’d disappear into her private chambers with Cindra, Samn, and Lady Fennen for. Speaking of the former, she stands between me and her mentor, looking more than a little uncomfortable with how the queen is going about this.

“We… we were just...” the mouse-man begins, then clears his throat as his voice squeaks. “We were just… sleeping.”

_What… the…_ “Sleeping?!” Fiyr shoots me a look for my outburst, but a ripple of amusement runs over the court.

“You were sleeping,” the queen repeats. “I see! Well, that certainly explains it.”

“We were hoping you had food and medicine to spare,” the other man admits, somehow sounding even more like a pubescent boy than his rodent-like friend.

“Ah! Of course.” The queen is almost vindictive in her smile at them as she says, “Shodawa has always been a friend of Thundria!”

Cindra shifts next to me and I understand her feeling; I like watching a good Bluelianna-thrashing as much as the next squire, but this is just a bit much. They’re clearly terrified of her, and as I look closer at them, I notice how their pallor isn’t just from their ancestry, but also generally sickliness; their under eyes are dark and there’s a near-bluish tint to their skin. Despite the warmth of the throne room, both of them keep tightly bundled up and I wonder if they’re hiding other symptoms beneath heavy travelling coats. _Maybe they really do need our help._

“Your Majesty,” the smaller man mumbles. “We are truly sorry for trespassing, and trust us when we say we don’t agree with everything our king does…”

It’s nearly an outright confession of weakness, and I can feel the shock of our court as the implications roll over us. The queen also pauses, levelling a newly-interested stare at them as he continues.

“But we are running out of options.” He doesn’t even sound desperate. Just quietly defeated as he peeks up at the queen. “Our court is in chaos. The sickness is out of control and soon there will be no living left to bury the dead.”

Unease tingles in my scalp. _What…? Weren’t they at the Gathering a few nights ago? No one said anything about them being in chaos. Not to me, at least._ Faern’s off with Sir Fere, watching the knights and the queen in total rapture. I frown at her. She was supposed to tell me everything when she got back.

“I see,” the queen says, expression giving nothing away. “Then perhaps we should speak privately.”

A little of the tension that built in me at the queen’s strange choice to hash this out in front of everyone eases, but it’s replaced with burning curiosity. _What’s she going to do? Shodawa attacked us, and now they’re weak. Surely turnabout’s fair play?_ Visions of flashing true-steel and the low hum of life-force play in my head.

She waves a hand, and Duss and Mauzian withdraw, then she ushers both Shodawes men away from us and into her private chambers. A heartbeat later, Cindra and Lady Fennen pass through the crowd to join them. _No! I wanna hear!_ Everyone else seems content to return to what they were doing before the meeting was called, though, and Fiyr disappears with Samn so I’m out of things to do.

Except maybe to happen to overhear the private conversation. Glancing around to make sure no one’s watching, I edge over to the dais and sit on the steps, facing away from the throne. It takes a minute to filter out the other sounds, but as I concentrate on the dull thrum of the conversation coming from behind me, it comes into sharp focus and everything else fades into silence.

“...not Thundria’s responsibility,” the queen is saying. “We would bring further belligerence from your _king_ were he to know you have come to us behind his back.”

“We know,” the voice of the black-haired man squeaks. “We don’t mean to cause trouble, but we don’t know what to do. Our healer has stopped treating the king entirely and he says we have to wait, but we’re _dying_. Please.”

“Your Majesty…” Cindra interjects softly, then stops.

“I must speak privately with my healers,” the queen declares. “You will both leave and return to your court, or what’s left of it, and we will send word of our decision when it is made. Wait outside, I’ll have my captain escort you back.”

Then I hear the door open, and the queen begins speaking again. I relax my focus, though, because I’m more interested in the two men who just left. The court room is mostly deserted, and neither Fiyr nor Lady Faise are around to reprimand me if I start doing something I shouldn’t be. Like talking to two Shodawes knights.

I jump to my feet, turn, and hurry over to them. The mousy one has begun to pace, while his better-looking friend leans against the wall. When they notice me, the former freezes.

I look them over as they exchange nervous looks, then ask, “What’re your names?”

“Sir Cleud,” the shorter man says, extending a timorous hand and then snatching it back, seeming to think better of it.

“I’m Sir Terote,” the other says, his voice lilting over the ‘r’ in the same as Lady Fennen’s does. He gives me a suspicious look. “What’s yours?”

He’s sizing me up like I’m a threat, which makes me puff out my chest a little. _He must think I’m a knight. But I can’t tell them my name. Then again, it wouldn’t give away my life-force, but…_ “None of your business. Is your court really falling apart?”

“None of _your_ business,” Sir Terote snaps back. Sir Cleud is twisting his hands and looking at the door of the queen’s chambers nervously. I give Sir Terote an imperious look.

“You’re in _my_ court, aren’t you?”

“Only because we have to be.” He sags suddenly, leaning back against the wall this time as if it’s more for support than out of nervous boredom. I step back, a little concerned by his abrupt change. He fixes an exhausted blue stare at me, and I fold my arms. “You know, you Thundrians like to strut around all holier-than-you until you actually have to do something. It’s not our fault our king’s about as useless as a glass sword.”

I scowl at the insult to Thundria. “We do not _strut!_ And we don’t owe your lot anything; you attacked us!”

“You kept the tyrant,” he spits.

“He’s _dead!_ ” Faern told me that much about the Gathering, at least, and from Sir Terote’s expression, I know he’s already heard the news. He grits his teeth and starts ignoring me. _Are all Shodawes knights idiots?_ I look at Sir Cleud, whose brows have knitted together in a terribly worried look. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Thundria helped us before,” he murmurs, not meeting my gaze. “Shodawa needs help again, okay? We’re not all proud assholes. No kingdom prospers eternal, and we’re in a terrible situation.”

His candour disarms me, but I quickly swallow and look away. “Yeah, well, the queen’s… the queen’s good. I’m sure she’ll do the right thing.”

_Not all Shodawes knights are all pitiful and shrinking, right?_ Sir Cleud definitely doesn’t look like some brute of a man I could defeat in glorious combat. Sir Terote might if he had a deep voice and body language that gave any impression that he had command of his joints. It’s disappointing. _I guess I’ll just have to wait for an elf._ Or a dragon. But the memory of a forest made of burning death is a bit too scarring, so maybe a rampaging orc band or something would be better.

“Where did the sickness come from?” I ask instead of pointing out how wimpy they are.

Sir Cleud shakes his head. Sir Terote continues to ignore me. “We don’t know. Med Naos thought it was the vampires, but…”

“ _Vampires?_ ” I imagine myself walking into a dark cavern as malevolent eyes watch from the shadows, black lips drawing back in fanged smiles _. I’ll pass. Too creepy._

Sir Terote huffs a laugh. “It was a Shodawes tradition before the tyrant. The Black Caves are fuckin’ swarming with them, and apparently new knights used to go hunting to prove themselves or whatever.”

“Hunting?” I wrinkle my nose. _They ate vampires? No wonder those idiots got sick._

“Not to eat,” Sir Cleud explains, eyes dull. “Just to prove who the most reckless, bloodthirsty knight at court was.”

I roll my eyes. _Now_ that _sounds like Shodawa._

“King Naitienne wanted to bring the tradition back…” Sir Cleud shakes his head. “Med Naos can’t keep up. For every person getting better, there’s…”

He trails off, but I don’t need to hear more. His face is dark, clouded by memories of the dead.

I refocus on the voices from the queen’s chamber in time to hear the queen say, “Then I will have Samn and Sir Harte escort them back.”

Just as the three women leave the chamber, I scurry back to the edge of the dais and concentrate very intently on my thumbnail. It’s getting long; dirt is flecked beneath the white crescent. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Lady Fennen leads Cindra back to the healer’s wing and the queen brings the two Shadowes knights to the dining hall, where I’m guessing Samn is waiting to bring them back to their territory.

When they’ve disappeared, I glance at the healer’s wing and bite my thumbnail, thinking. _I could go grill Cindra on the conversation that I missed when I was talking to them, or…_ Samn and Fiyr emerge with the Shodawes knights in tow. _Maybe they’ll let more slip to Fiyr. He’s nosy._

So as the four of them disappear out the castle doors, I count to thirty, then slip out the doors in pursuit. The weird smell of the Shodawes knights is gone when I reach the stables and mount Sir Fluffyhooves, so I hurry my horse over to the patch of leaves and waste no time descending to the forest floor. There’s really only a few paths they could be taking, and a moment of concentrating on the sounds of the forest quickly tells me which Samn picked. Faint hoofbeats to the east.

I set off after them without hesitation, and strain to hear their voices through the trees. Unfortunately, while I can hear Sir Cleud and Sir Terote mumbling to each other, Fiyr isn’t subjecting them to the interrogation I was hoping for.

Still, maybe they’ll make a break for it and turn into deep-voiced elves or something so we can have a good fight. As the ride drags on, my hope wanes. Fiyr and Samn still have no idea I’m a few hundred metres behind them. _Call themselves knights?_

It’s a few hours of a fat load of nothing before we reach the Shodawes border, and I fight a yawn. _I should’ve just gone back to the castle._ I perk up a little as I watch Sir Cleud and Sir Terote ride away from Fiyr and Samn. _Now’s your last chance if you want to sneak back into our territory._

But they don’t. They ride down a hillock to the edge of the soulpath, then along it as it rises up sharply. A moment later, they seem to suddenly disappear. _Whoa! What?_ I lean forward on Sir Fluffyhooves, trying to spot the entrance they took, which my horse takes as his cue to ride out of the trees toward Fiyr and Samn. _Shit._

“Clowd?” Fiyr jerks Blitz around and stares at me. “What… how long have you been following us?”

I shrug, trying to avoid looking _too_ guilty. “Not… not long.”

“But you’re _here_ ,” Samn interjects, shooting Fiyr a look. “You should have stayed in the castle.”

The urge to roll my eyes is strong, but I wave my hand impatiently. “That’s not important! Those two knights just poofed into the thin air! Don’t you want to know where they went?”

Samn nods. She’s got that true-steel look in her eye, the one she gets if Faern got a nick in training or something. “Yes. And I want you to go back to the castle. You shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am, so let me help investigate!” Without waiting for an answer, I spur Sir Fluffyhooves down the hillock, along the path the Shadowes knights took. I can see why we don’t go down here much; it’s a steep decline and the earth is practically bare. Unless I want to go hunting for earthworms… but more interestingly than the lack of anything living is what lies in the shadow of the soulpath. It’s an opening in the raw gray stone that almost forms the mouth of a cave, though it’s too squared off and deliberate for me to believe it’s natural. As I approach it, I see long, flat shards of white lying on the ground. _Is that… an old soulpath, maybe?_

“Clowd, get away from there!”

I ignore Fiyr and continue to inspect the shards. They form an almost-path with big pieces missing, like a mirror someone tried to piece back together with half of the original glass. “I think it’s a broken soulpath!”

Peering into the gloom of the not-quite-cave doesn’t help much, though. What little light does enter it catches on the shards and stops there. I have no idea where the cave comes out. _But Sir Cleud and Sir Terote took that path without a second thought. Does it go to Shodawes territory? Where does it come out? Just on the other side of the border, or…_

“Clowd!” Fiyr calls again.

I roll my eyes. “What?”

“It could be dangerous!” Fiyr has ridden over to reprimand me, and I resist another eyeroll.

“Those two knights used it to get back to their territory.” I gesture to the dark opening of the side of the soulpath. “It can’t be _that_ dangerous. I think it could be useful, actually! What if it comes out in the middle of Shodawes territory? We could attack the castle without them ever knowing what hit them!”

Fiyr doesn’t seem to hear a word I said. “Clowd, you can’t follow us and then go sniffing around the Shodawes trace-line. Get back from there.”

I give an exaggerated sigh, then bring Sir Fluffyhooves back toward Fiyr and Samn.

“For following us, you’re going to be doing the squires’ and elders’ laundry for a week,” Fiyr declares. “And stay away from that cave.”

“It’s _not_ a cave! It’s an old soulpath, or a broken one or something,” I pursue, ignoring my fresh load of laundry duty. “Don’t you think it could be useful? What if we have to attack Shodawa?”

“That’s not your concern,” Samn says, voice chilly. “Let’s get back to the castle to tell the queen that the Shodawes knights are gone”

As we leave the trace-line, Fiyr gives me a look. “Did you hear me? Laundry for a week.”

“I heard,” I say, not bothering to even look at him. _At this point, I think I can just assume that I’m always going to be on laundry. What’s the point? I’m not going to just do whatever he tells me because he threatens me with dirty pillows._ But that’s the Fiyr way, to keep doing something pointless over and over again even when you keep getting the same result because you’re not bright enough to consider trying something else. _It’s never different._

I’ve thought that sort of thing before, but this time it’s accompanied by a little voice piping up, _It could be._ I think of my father, of the image he gave me of frowning-me in a forest. I feel frowny. We return to the castle, and I return to ignoring Fiyr. He shouts something after me as I go back into the healer’s wing, but I tune him out.

Time to find out what the queen decided about the Shodawes knights. Cindra is already shaking her head when I come over to her.

“I can’t tell you, Clowd, it’s private.”

“Just a hint?” I wheedle. “Is she going to help them?”

Cindra purses her lips.

“Blink twice if she’s leaving them to die.”

Cindra’s jaw tightens. “I tried to tell her… forget it. I can’t tell you.”

_So she’s not going to help them._ I’m pulled in two directions by the news. _Guess it’s good not to interfere._ Still, the look in Sir Cleud’s eyes… I shudder. “That’s awful. What do you think will happen to them?”

Cindra sighs.

“I talked to them when you and Lady Fennen and the queen were meeting privately,” I admit carelessly. “They’re not very scary. I thought they’d at least have a necklace made of teeth or something.”

“They’re probably not much older than you,” Cindra sighs again.

“What? But they’re knights.”

“You age faster, I think.” Her gaze darkens. “And the tyrant made a lot of kids squires before they were twelve. Sir Cleud and Sir Terote look about sixteen or seventeen to me.”

I can’t think of anything to say to that. _Sixteen…?_ I remember my conversation with them. The way Sir Cleud said that Thundria helped them before. _But that was like, ten years ago._ My stomach turns. _When Sir Cleud would only have been six by Cindra’s estimation. He made a lot of squires before they were twelve…_ I don’t really want to believe it but Cindra’s face doesn’t leave much wiggle room. _Six year old knights?!_ I imagine Sarola, Rhane, or Siotos on the battlefield. They scream when they skin their knees. _What kind of evil..._

“They need us again,” Cindra whispers. “They need help, it’s just a question who’s going to help them before more people die.”

There’s a look in her eye that reminds me of my dad when he asked me to live with him. Determination and desperation coexisting. _What are you going to do?_ It’s on my tongue, but if this whole thing goes south I don’t want the queen grilling me on my involvement. “Right. Well. I have laundry to do.”

She forces a smile. I leave the healer’s wing. _She’s not going to wait,_ I know. _My dad will, though, right? Oh, we’ve gotten to_ Dad _now have we, brain?_ I test it out in my head. _Dad. Living with Dad. Dad’s house. Dad’s people._ I feel a little of the sickness in my stomach put there by Cindra’s somber insinuation about Sir Cleud’s age fade. _Wouldn’t have to worry about that kind of thing if I joined the gods, right? Whoever heard of gods getting sick?_ Maybe it’s a solution that _wouldn’t_ get me in trouble. _Dad wouldn’t give me laundry duty,_ I think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed, and please leave your thoughts in a comment!  
> ~Akila


	9. Chapter 8 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I’ve been doing some stuff over on the warriors-kingdoms tumblr that you may be interested in checking out… Map.

Chapter 8 - Clowd

The flame shoots past my cheek and I grin.

_Finally._

Then I grab the crackling, cold energy at my fingertips and bend it toward Fiyr. A blast of crystalline air jets at his sweat-stained undershirt, and he leaps away, then swings with a simple-steel practice blade. I knock it aside and aim a stab at his shins. He jumps again, then thrusts out both hands, the telltale _swoosh_ of air letting me know fire is coming.

I launch myself out of the way, stumbling, then land flat on my stomach in the dust as the fire sears the air close enough to cast heat over me.

“Okay, stop! Stop!” Fiyr shouts as I scramble to my feet. Faern and Sir Fere watch from the edge of the sparring pen, and Fiyr walks over to help me up, breathing hard. “Sorry, Clowd, I shouldn’t have…”

“No, it was good!” I insist. “C’mon, let’s go again.”

“I want you to practice your parries,” Fiyr says, getting that look on his face when he’s telling me to do something he knows I won’t like. “You can’t use your… your life-force for everything.”

I roll my eyes. _Whatever._ Guess he didn’t care that I parried his swing perfectly right before he tried to roast me into ashes. Sir Fere hops the side of the pen and Faern squeezes around the break in the wood, then we take up positions across from each other.

Her fighting’s really predictable; she uses the same moves in the same order, over and over again until we get tired. I think she picked it up from Samn. I’m practically stifling yawns as I knock away her next by-the-book swing. Then I retaliate, picturing exactly how Fiyr did it, and manage to push past her defenses with a little extra strength behind it.

“Clowd! Don’t try to _win_ , this is just for practice,” Fiyr lectures me from the other side of the sparring pen.

_But this is boring!_ I use the flat edge of my sword to slap the back of Faern’s hand as she makes another loose drive at my right side. Sure enough, _Fairy’s Light_ slips out of her gloved grip and lands in the dirt. I point _Papercut_ at the ground, barely breathing hard. Faern sighs and dusts herself off, then grabs her sword. Even from a few paces away, I can smell the tang of blood on her breath; she’s been biting her lips. What’s she so stressed about now?

We go back and forth another couple of times, with Brakken calling advice to his squire from the sidelines. Fiyr is stonily silent, staring at my footwork.

“Can we do a real spar now?” I ask Fiyr, turning away so I don’t have to keep breathing in the smell of Faern’s blood. “I’m bored.”

Faern folds her arms, but before she can snap at me, Brakken comes over to replace me and start helping her up close. Fiyr watches them for a moment, his mouth a tight line, then returns his stern look to me.

“Your parries still need work.”

“No, they don’t! I’m doing them exactly right, which you’d know if you didn’t stop every spar after like five seconds!” I know I’m heading straight for weeks of laundry duty, as usual, but I’m at my wit’s end. It’s impossible to practice what it’ll be like in a real battle if he keeps making me do the same little moves over and over again in isolation!

“Because you refuse to use your sword!” Fiyr snaps right back. “Clowd, you _need_ to rely on your sword. Your life-force should be a last resort!”

Which is never, ever something he’d say to Faern. My cheeks burn and I feel my temper rising out of control. Because he wants to keep my powers secret, even though _obviously_ , Brakken knows, and Faern knows, and Lady Faise knows, and—and it’s not like I’ve ever hurt anyone! He’s just telling me what to do for no reason at all!

“Whatever.” It’s better than starting a shouting match with Brakken and Faern still _well_ within earshot, but it makes Fiyr’s eyes blaze anyway. “I’m going to hunt alone, okay? We can do this tomorrow.”

Ordering him around really isn’t doing any favours, but after he clenches his jaw so hard I think it’s about to snap in half, he breathes out and says, “Fine. Fine. Be careful, check the—stay alert, I mean. Faern, Sir Fere, and I will be around these forests if you need help. You have permission to take from the training rations if you get hungry, and get back at least a couple of hours before dinner.”

I guess all those restrictions and allowances are his way of re-establishing his authority, but I still got my way, so I grin at him without much warmth and say, “I will.”

Then Sir Fluffyhooves and I disappear into the forests.

I’m not planning to stay near them, but… hey, if I get into trouble, Fiyr won’t be around to lecture me for using god-magic. _Not life-force,_ I remind myself, even though it stings something in my heart. _I don’t have life-force. I have god-magic because I’m half-god and Fiyr hates it because it means I’m strong._ Maybe that’s why he never actually spars me until one of us loses. Because he knows it’s going to be him. _I know who wouldn’t be all insecure around me. Who might actually be able to teach me how to use my magic properly._

I spur Sir Fluffyhooves into a gallop and head for the border.

The smell of Fiyr’s sweat and Faern’s blood finally clears from my nose, swept away by the fresh, lively smells of the forest. I half-close my eyes, drinking in the peace that solitude brings, and trust Sir Fluffyhooves to know the way.

The manor is just as imposing and fantastical as I remember.

Now, though, I’m looking at it and thinking of the image my father sent me, of me and him sitting at a table happily talking together. _Could that be real…? Can gods see the future?_ I feel silly wondering, especially since Lady Eie’s visions would never be as clear as the image he sent me, but still… _We just don’t know. And Fiyr isn’t interested in finding out._

I dismount Sir Fluffyhooves and lash his lead to a tree at the edge of the forest, then scale the wall. This is usually where I come to meet Mom, but we didn’t arrange a time for today, so she’s probably not around. The gardens aren’t deserted, though; a few god-toys in shiny green boots that go to their knees and dirt-stained, thick gloves that grip shears and spades are kneeling in rows of hedges and flower patches, probably seeding for spring. I watch them work silently for a few minutes, then jump to attention as the sweet, tingly smell of a god washes over me.

“Clowd!” My father stands on the other side of his gardens, looking impossibly regal and commanding when compared to all the gardeners. “Son!”

Before I can think better of it, I run through the stone garden paths, ignoring the god-toys, and skid to an awkward stop in front of him. _How do gods greet each other?_

I’m answered with a crushing hug. _He’s so strong!_ I marvel, and try to squeeze him right back. His satin shirt is slippery on my cheek. I feel kind of tiny, but still, joy bubbles up in my chest. _A dad-hug. Never thought I’d find out what that feels like._

“You are back!” he exclaims, pulling back and holding me at arms-length as if he wants to get a good look at me.

I nod, cheeks flushed. “Not to stay yet, but I missed you.”

His lips draw back in a perfect, shiny grin. “I missed you!” he repeats back to me. His accent is already disappearing, I notice. His consonants are smoother, and his inflection sounds way more like a Thundrian’s. “ _Have_ you eaten.”

“Have I eaten?” I repeat back to him. He blinks once, then says,

“Have you eaten?”

_He picks it up so fast._ One of my worries about living with gods was that none of them would ever be able to talk to me normally. But his language is already leaps and bounds better than it was last time, and I’m struck with the sense that he could be fluent in the common tongue within a month or two. _Is that another god-thing? Super fast learning? That would explain why Fiyr refuses to believe I’ve mastered parrying after a year of training._ “No, I haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

He claps his hands, blue eyes glowing. “Lunch! You can eat midday with your kin.”

“Eat lunch with you?” I echo, and glance at the gardeners, suddenly self-conscious.

“What are you asking?” His brow wrinkles.

“Um… do you want me to eat lunch with you?”  
“Yes!” he exclaims, another dazzling grin splitting his face as I understand. “You can see… see how life as my son is.”

I falter. _Well, my whole life is life as your son. But I think it’s just a language issue._ “Really?”

“Really!” He claps again, then motions to the door in the side of the house that I’m assuming he came out of. “Come!”

He gives me an expectant look, and I swallow. “Okay! Wow, okay, let’s… have lunch.”

I dunno what I was planning, coming here, but it definitely wasn’t this. Still, the prospect of actually living like a god for a lunch…? I’m almost dizzy as I follow my dad into the house, then down the vast hallway that the side-door leads to.

It’s a sharp contrast to the back hallway where the kitchens were; marble columns line the wide corridor, with the occasional tapestry decorating the wall or bust of a perfect head and shoulders clustered at the bottom of an aforementioned pillar. The floor is pale marble with an almost greenish cast, and small vines of gold shoot through it, creating a scintillating effect when they catch the light of the torches. It makes me think of how Fiyr described the Lunar Crystal. _And the gods just use it as their floor._

I almost don’t know what to focus on as we sweep past room after room; galleries and sitting rooms and more than one massive staircase and— _Library!_ I nearly slip out of my father’s firm on my shoulder as I’m drawn to it, but he stops, seeing my interest.

“Books? _What_ —What books do you read?” he asks, eyes brightening. I’m a little startled, both by his grasp of language for the topic and also by the sheer intensity of his interest. Having him entirely focused on me is a bit dizzying.

“I… I was researching… gods,” I explain somewhat uncertainly, and sure enough, his brow creases in worry.

“Researching?”

I bite my lip, trying to think of how to explain it. “I wanted to know… I wanted to know more about gods.” I picture the encyclopedias with their limited information, scribbly margins, and fearmonger-y tones. A moment later, another image appears in my mind, of the glimpse I caught of the library but in its full glory; endless, dizzying shelves of books, cream-leather bound tomes with gilt lettering in a language I can’t read, neat folders of vellum pages, alphabetized stacks… _So much information!_

As if my father can read my mind, he grins. “You can read them. Midday— _Lunch_ first.”

I nod, still a little breathless. _An unbiased source? More like millions of unbiased sources, actually. Just think of all there is to learn!_ I can’t help peeking at my dad out of the corner of my eye as we continue to blow past room after room, wondering how much he could teach me. _He wouldn’t make me practice parries over and over again, because he’d know I learn fast. He might be able to teach me how to do the brain-picture thing!_ I could show Mom what Faern looks like.

We arrive in the dining hall.

My jaw actually drops when I see the table; _That’s more food than… than I’ve ever seen._ It would feed the court for months. _This is their_ lunch _?!_ I thought lunch was just… a piece of fruit and bowl of spiced rice if there’s time. _Not a Starlaxi-damned-feast._

“Sit!” he exclaims, and I finally notice, over the piled food, more gods at the table. I freeze in the door, just taking in sight of so many perfect faces. At least half a dozen are seated on this side of the room, and more on the other, all silently eating. It’s a little freaky, but the music emanating from a far corner dispels the creepiness of not talking to anyone while you eat.

At the sound of my father’s voice, a few gods look up. A female god with hair like starlight narrows her eyes at the sight of me. I’m a little stunned, then wonder if she’s my father’s wife. _Like Samn and Sir Strommer._ The idea of having _more_ family is dizzying. _Will we be close, too?_ She doesn’t look very warm and fuzzy, but maybe if she knew who I was…

“I’ll introduce you,” my father says, then… stops talking. _With his brain?_ I marvel at the way sudden understanding ripples over the seated gods. The starlight-haired woman gives me a thin-lipped smile, then returns to her meal.

_Okay, maybe I won’t be gaining a second mom, then. Whatever, my real mom’s plenty,_ I decide, scowling at the woman who is no longer looking at me.

“Sit!” my father repeats, and guides me over the seat next to the empty head of the table. Then he takes a seat in the massive, ornate wooden chair at the end. As I take a seat too, my legs dangling over the edge of the too-big chair like I’m a little kid, a short human woman steps forward to start moving food from one of the large platters to my dad’s empty plate.

He watches, eyes hazy with disinterest, then turns back to me. “Clowd! Will you eat?”

“Sure,” I say, darting a look at the woman who then moves to my side to move strange orange things wrapped in lettuce onto my plate, hardly even acknowledging my existence. Another god-toy steps forward to fill my father’s goblet with something dark and sharp-smelling. He holds up a finger idly when the crystal glass is half-full, and the man withdraws. I watch him go, feeling a little less hungry. _He’s around Fiyr’s age._ His hair is a very ordinary shade of brown, though, and I don’t smell the fizz of life-force on him.

A voice suddenly speaks in my mind.

_Where do you hail._

I jump in my seat, the silver fork I’d raised clattering back onto the plate too-loudly. _What? Who said that?_ The god-woman I noticed earlier looks up and frowns at me.

_Where do you hail._

“From Thundria,” I say, voice wavering in the air. The music isn’t loud enough to cover the fact that no one else is talking. _Do they all talk through the mental-link-thing?_

_Your aptitude._

“What?”

_What is your aptitude._ I can almost hear a sigh in her tone. Her voice is a little echoey in my mind, less warm than my father’s. I meet her gaze, and quickly look away. Her eyes are piercingly blue, and I feel like a bug that Rhane caught in a jar under her stare.

“I don’t have one yet,” I lie, with exactly no clue what she’s talking about. _Is that like life-force?_

_It is not human life-force._

_Oh, so she can read my thoughts. Great. Get out of my head._

My father gives me a concerned look, but I’m totally focused on this weird lady.

_It is the way of gods,_ is her only answer. She’s hardly even looking at me, like the tiny, criss-crossing brown logs on her plate are more interesting.

_You speak really good human-tongue for a snooty god._

_My aptitude is locution._

More words I don’t know. I decide ignoring her is a better course of action than embarrassing myself, and focus instead on the weird, unfamiliar food in front of me. _Lettuce and… chicken?_ I sniff it cautiously. It doesn’t smell as strongly as Thundrian food. _Well, I’m here for lunch anyway._ I take a bite, and almost sag with relief. _I wouldn’t be a picky eater if everything tasted like this._ It’s subtle, a little smoky and crunchy, and it doesn’t immediately overwhelm me with a hundred different flavours and textures like most Thundrian food does. _And_ it’s more interesting than plain noodles. Which means it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I quickly finish off what the woman served me, then sip from the cup. I didn’t even notice a god-toy fill it, but it has the same dark stuff as my dad’s. I think, anyway; they smell the same.

Another moves forward and serves me more from a different platter, leaving a round, matte white disc floating in a small puddle of black sauce. I shift it around with my spoon, then try to break off a little piece carefully. It feels really weird, eating god-food, but I remind myself that it’s elves that trick you into eating their food. _This won’t hurt me. Gods eat it and I’m half-god._ That’s probably why that lady’s so unfriendly. I stare at her again. _I’m god enough to be here._

What must my mom have felt like, with the gods? Did my father introduce her to these people too? I bet that snobby lady would have been rude to her. Still, the other gods aren’t as openly annoyed by my presence as she is; a younger-looking god with shiny black hair gives me a bit of a smile. I wave back. _He looks around my age. Is he my half-brother? Or my cousin? Maybe we would’ve been friends if we’d grown up together. Maybe we_ could _be friends._ Peeking at my dad reveals that he’s quite invested in his lunch, but every so often he’ll glance up at the white-haired woman and give her a meaningful look.

_So either gods don’t talk while they eat or they’re all using their minds to talk silently…_ I look around and notice how some gods will incline their heads to another, then turn as if they’re going to speak to the person next to them and still never make a sound. _I think it’s the second one. Still seems… kind of freaky._ Maybe it would be different if I could talk silently too.

My father doesn’t notice. “Clowd, you read?”

“Yeah.” I’m grateful to have something approximating a normal conversation. I scrape up a spoonful of the black sauce, then my plate is whisked away by a near-unseen god-toy.

“You like books of… of battle? Magic?”

_Like… adventure novels?_ “I don’t really read for fun.” _Faern would be a little more suited to this, I think. If romance novels count._ “I was reading because I wanted to find out more about the gods, and what we can do.”

The white-haired woman’s eyes narrow a fraction, but my father nods, enthusiastic. “Yes! Yes, I can show you all our power.”

Glancing around the room, I feel like he already almost has. The opulence of the house, the god-toys constantly at work… Honestly, though, that last one makes me shift around in my seat a bit. _Just like my mom. Just like Fiyr used to be._ I look at the man who served me. _What if he had gone to Thundria instead of Fiyr?_

It’s nice to think I belong here, at the table with a bunch of other powerful gods, but... _Don’t they have enchantments that could make the food float around and serve itself?_ I imagine being a god-toy, and having to serve someone like Darriek or something all day long. _That would suck._

I finish my food and say, haltingly, “Uh, that’s okay—I’m—I’m full, actually,” when god-toy steps forward to serve me again. I survey the table, taking in the half-empty plates that sit in front of gods, and the even-less-empty plates that they were served from. _So much food! Where do they keep it all?_ The snow’s melting, so they won’t be able to seal it and pack it under ice to keep it fresh for much longer. _This is… crazy. Where does it all come from?_ I remember the empty bellies and single servings from this winter—and it wasn’t even one of the harder ones. The memory of counting how many bites a meal would have versus… _this_ leaves me a little dazed. _I guess the court wouldn’t have to worry about feeding me if I joined Dad’s house._

“You’d really let me stay…?” I ask him as we stand. I reach out to take my plate instinctively, Fiyr’s nagging about bringing my dishes to the kitchen ringing in my brain. My father reaches out and takes my hand, stopping me. His skin is kind of cold.

“Of course.” He gives me another perfectly symmetrical smile, and then guides me back toward the entrance we came through. “ _Dejka_ , you are my son. Kin. I have so much to teach you, and I will be happy to have you at my side. My heir.”

_His heir?_ I blink. _Well, he doesn’t have any children, Clowd, or you would’ve met them._ I guess that black-haired god-boy isn’t his son. The suggestion of importance makes my chest swell. _He has stuff to teach me! I could find out how to talk with my mind and what my aptitude is and how to travel on soul-paths and—_ I glance at the god-toy, who’s just turning to leave. His eyes catch mine for a second; not as pale or unusual as a god’s, just sort of dark. His brows furrow, then he turns and disappears into a side-hall. My father doesn’t notice. _But the gods will still have servants, whether I’m here or not. Why does it matter?_

“I should get back.”

“Why?” Dad’s face wrinkles a little with disappointment. “You won’t stay.”

“No, not now,” I say, not wanting to make him sad, but still feeling surprised that _he’s_ surprised. _Of course not. This was just some one-off thing. Even if I do come to live with him… I can’t just go without saying goodbye to everyone._ “Thanks for letting me have lunch with you, and… um, everyone. But I need to go back to Thundria for now.”

He laughs. “Next time you’ll stay?”

I falter. _Don’t make a promise, but…_ “Maybe. I don’t know. I want to see you soon though.”

“Yes! Soon,” he promises. “Then you will want to stay.”

I laugh too, not totally sure whether he’s joking. “Right.”

He escorts me to the edge of the manor, and he leaves me by the gates. It’s nice to be able to go out the main gates without worrying about being caught by a god. The guards watch me untie Sir Fluffyhooves and mount him with their weird, pale eyes. _So they employ other gods as guards, but they make god-toys cook. Weird. I guess whatever would be daring enough to attack a god’s house would be too strong for humans to deal with._ I shiver.

As I return to the castle, I start worrying about my trace. _Can they tell I’ve been with the gods? Doesn’t my trace already smell like a god’s, or whatever?_ Truth be told, I tune Fiyr out when he starts trying to explain how the Trace works. I can’t access it, so why should I care? I can still smell and hear way better than he can, so if you ask me, I don’t even need it. _Or maybe there’s some version of the Trace that gods can access…_ The idea of an entire arsenal of yet-untouched power just buried inside me somewhere is exciting! _Who knows what I can do? Fiyr doesn’t. Dad might. I hope I get the chance to sneak back there soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading! Please let me know what you think of this chapter and all of what we’ve seen so far of Clowd’s dad… in a comment! Until the 15th!
> 
> ~Akila


	10. Chapter 9 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am both very displeased with this chapter and very pleased. Hrm. Let me know your tots. And of course, enjoy.

Chapter 9 - Samn Schorme

_Steady on…_ I think, holding my breath as I watch Briatte nock her bow. The stag nibbles at the green shoots that grow from the roots of the oak tree my squire is half-crouched behind. I’m on the other side of a small brook, also on a knee and just out of sight of both my squire and her prey. This hunting assessment hasn’t exactly been going perfectly; her technique is fine and she’s done anything I would have to track down game, but the forest isn’t cooperating. This stag will be her first big catch today.

_Fwoot_.

The shot is nearly perfect, hitting the stag in the shoulder. It doesn’t seem to realize it’s been hit for a moment and tries to jump away into the forest, then stumbles and collapses. Briatte is on it in a heartbeat and I’ve barely spotted the dagger in her hands before she’s pierced its heart. It falls still.

I stand, stretching my sore legs, then reveal myself. “Nice work.”

“Lady Schorme!” Briatte jumps to her feet, hurriedly sheathing her dagger and wiping the blood off her hands. “I—thank you! I… I haven’t caught much else, though.”

“I know,” I assure her. “It’s not your fault. Sometimes it’s just bad luck. But this more than makes up for it. Let’s get it back to the castle. I can show you how to prepare it.”

I help her lay the stag’s body over Sunny’s flank, then I go find Dune so we can return. As we ride, Briatte comments. “It’s thanks to you, you know? I used that thing you told me about like, closing one eye and lining it up from your shoulder.”

“Oh.” I wind one rein around my finger, embarrassed by the praise. “Well, come on, I just told you. You were the one who took the shot.”

“I’m serious!” Briatte’s eyes shine. “I think you’re the best with a bow at court.”

“What, have you been secretly testing everyone?”

“No, but I mean…” She shrugs. “You have such good aim and you know so many, like, tricks.”

_Just take the compliment, Samn_. “Well, thanks.”

When we return to the castle, I help Briatte bring the stag around back and we lay it on the stone just outside the kitchen. There’s a small pulley system to let us hang the animal up mounted in the bricks of the castle; some villager invention.

“Okay, start gutting it and I’ll get us some carving knives,” I direct. That’s about as far as we got with fresh-kill preparation in past hunting sessions. _So what? Thorrin doesn’t know how to do it either._ Not to knock Lady Fyrra, but… you know.

Briatte gulps as she looks at the body, then kneels and pulls her dagger back out. I return to the kitchen to fetch a couple of the slightly-curved, always-sharpened blades that are kept in a high-up cupboard. Sarola and her brothers have been causing enough chaos without wickedly sharp knives in their chubby little hands.

“Back already?”

I turn to see a very pregnant Lady Tiall hovering in the doorway of the throne room. She’s taken to wrapping her arms around her belly and drifting from room to room to rub people’s noses in her pregnancy. Now, she peels herself off the doorframe and takes a leisurely stroll toward me.

“Carving knives? Oh, is Briatte going to learn now?” Her smile’s about as sharp as the blades in my hands.

“Yep,” I say tightly and then quickly leave again, hoping she won’t follow. Couldn’t be that lucky, though, could I? Speikall trails me like a shadow pregnant with triplets. “Here, Briatte.”

Briatte must hear something in my voice, because as she takes the knife from me, I see her stare at Lady Tiall. _I guess we both grew up with her ruling the nursery with her iron fist,_ I think, noting the way Lady Tiall eyes Briatte. _Briatte’s her granddaughter, after all. Hm. Maybe that’s the reason for all the pregnancy-showboating._ Both Lady Fennen and Cindra are a little concerned about how the birth will go, since Speikall’s around fifty, but she seems well enough to watch judgily as I quietly instruct Briatte on holding up the stag’s leg, then incising around its ankle.

“Just slide your knife under the skin like that,” I advise, guiding her hand with mine. Briatte makes a face, but her movement is smooth and unfaltering.

“Once you have the pelt you can make a cloak.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Speikall sounded sweet, but I’ve been around long enough to know a jab is coming. “Do you know how to sew, Briatte?”

_There it is._

“Mom taught me.” Briatte’s tone is neutral, but her expression reflects my own irritation.

“And you and Samn have been practicing?” Speikall asks. Look, I don’t even _like_ being called Lady Schorme, but something about ‘ _Samn_ ’ in that saccharine voice pisses me off.

“Nope, too busy battle training.” I can’t help mimicking her overly cheery tone. “Gut punches and choke-holds and that sort of thing.”

Briatte is getting the hang of skinning, and sets down the knife to start pulling at the pelt with her hands. I turn to Lady Tiall.

“You’d think having two women in charge might allow the court to move in a more… family-oriented direction,” she sighs. I grit my teeth. “But I suppose we’ll all be learning to stab our enemies and the court will have to eat raw venison, skin and all.”

_I’m literally teaching her to remove the skin right now._ “Your son’s two years ahead of Briatte and he can’t bake an un-scorched loaf of bread to save his life, you know.”

Lady Tiall gives a little tittery laugh. “You know how men are.”

_Is she for real?_ I squint at her. _I think she’s just trying to wind me up._ “Briatte’s learning now, isn’t that enough?”

She shrugs. “It takes practice, and she doesn’t have it.”

“Doesn’t have it _yet_ , everyone starts somewhere.” _Am I seriously arguing with a heavily pregnant woman? Just ignore her, Samn, and help Briatte before she cuts herself._

“And you’ve elected to let your squire start four years late?”  
_Alright, that’s it. Pregnant or not, I’ll deck her. I haven’t done a bad job as a mentor, I’m just not doing it the way she wants me to, right? Briatte’s doing fine. So what if she wasn’t born knowing how to skin a deer? There are more important things in life._ “Lady Tiall, all due respect, I’m not interested in your opinion on how I train my squire.”

That actually evokes a non-cloying reaction from her. Her lips turn white and thin, and the usual spark in her gaze turns downright venomous. “Alright. Have it your way, but when she’s—”

She cuts herself off with a sudden groan of pain, and wraps her arms even more tightly around her swollen midsection.

_Oh shit, what did I do?_

“Lady Tiall? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” There’s a nearly-triumphant look in her eye as she gazes at her belly. “I’m going into labour. Get the healer.”

_Healers._ But there’s no time to correct her. “Briatte—uh, leave the stag for a sec. Can you—um, can you help Lady Tiall into the healer’s wing? I’ll fetch Lady Fennen and Lady Plait.”

Briatte has gone wide-eyed as if the babies are popping out of Lady Tiall as we speak, but snaps back to her senses at my order, and takes the woman by the arm. “Okay, I’ll… I’ll help you. C’mon. Um, remember to breathe.”

“You don’t need to help her through the delivery, just get her to the wing!” I toss over my shoulder as I run through the kitchen and out into the throne room. “Lady Fennen! Lady Plait!”

Cindra’s just coming out of the dining hall with a bundle of paper under one arm. I don’t know what she was doing in there, but now’s not really an ideal time to catch up. “What—Samn, what’s happening?”

“Lady Tiall just went into labour.”

“What?” Cindra freezes and I have the weirdest feeling that she’s about to run away. I grab her shoulder.

“Where’s Lady Fennen?”

“Lady… she’s—she was doing one of her big cleans, I wanted to stay out of the way—” Cindra explains, her gaze skittering around the throne room almost distractedly. I turn to see Briatte ushering a still-groaning Lady Tiall across to the healer’s wing hallway. “And—oh, blessed Starlaxi, I’m…”

_Oh. Silaverre._ Her reaction clicks into place, and I tighten my hold on her shoulder, pulling her into a half-embrace. “Cindra. It’s going to be okay. Goldanna was fine, remember? And Lady Fennen will be doing most of the work, won’t she?”

“She’s hardly a soothing presence!” I can’t quite tell if she’s making a joke. She swallows hard, looking faintly ill.

“Lady Tiall’s tough as nails,” I assure Cindra, and start herding her toward the healer’s wing. “You’ll both be fine, and you don’t even have to take care of three screaming babies for the next two years.” I’m relieved to see some of the almost-green cast of Cindra’s face fade at the attempt at humour, and I finally let go of her. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Please never say that again.” Her straight face twitches though, and I grin.

“You’ll be fine,” I repeat, then give her a little shove toward the healer’s wing. Lady Tiall’s groaning is getting louder, and I can’t help wincing too. _But it’s going to be fine. If she’s strong enough to snipe at me all day, she’s strong enough to get through this. She’s at the castle, she has two healers with her…_ I swallow, remembering Fiyr’s white face as he walked through the castle doors, clutching two children in his arms with tragedy hanging over him like a storm cloud… _It’s Speikall. The Blessing will save her._

Briatte appears in the doorway of the healer’s wing and comes over to me, looking worried. “Lady Fennen told me to go. I would’ve helped, but…”

“It’s okay, you’re not expected to know how to deliver babies,” I remind her, then add, “Just sew, skin a deer, and play a few instruments.”

Briatte laughs, then shoots another anxious look at the healer’s wing. “Is… do you think she’ll be alright?”

“Of course,” I assure her. “She’s been through it before. Here, why don’t we go finish with that stag and then we can prepare a nice meat pie for her when she’s done?”

“How long will it take?” Briatte follows me into the kitchen, then back out into the cool spring air.

“The birth or the pie?”  
“Uh… either?”

“I don’t know, and probably around three hours if you include quartering the stag and preparing the meat.” I bend and grab the carving knife that Briatte left on the stone. “Here, finish with the skin and I’ll hook it up.”

I’m grateful for the work. This kind of methodical, step-by-step process is great for keeping Briatte distracted, and honestly, I’m happy to have an excuse to focus on something other than the three-about-to-be-newborns in the castle. Briatte does a fine job with the pelt, and I haul the stag up onto the hanging system, grunting at the weight. _Well, here’s the fun part._

We spend an hour with the carcass, and I know that I’m kind of just making an excuse to not be in the castle, but hopefully Briatte’s learning something. Sure enough, within the hour she’s sliding her blade between muscle and bone like a pro. _Take that, Speikall. My squire is doing fine._

As Briatte chops a couple of withered onions and potatoes, I grind the meat and spice it. It’s an old recipe, and I have faint memories of Lady Fuor and Mom helping me and Duss measure out the spices, far away from the sizzling oven-top. Then Mom would herd us back into the nursery while we waited for it to cook and Duss and I would ask every two minutes if it was ready yet, emboldened by the smell. The memory makes me pause as I poise the bowl of ground venison over the oiled pan. I wonder what Duss is doing right now.

“Lady Schorme?” Briatte asks, noticing my hesitation.

I dump it in, pulling my hands away quick enough to avoid the splatter of oil on my hands. “Yeah?”

“Er, nevermind.”

_Lady Schorme._ It gives me the familiar prick of annoyance. Even though I knew since I was like, six, that I wanted to tell everyone who I ‘really was’ at my knight’s ceremony, the ceremony always seemed so… distant. And the rest of my life after that even less real. _What was I, nineteen? And now I’m nearly thirty and I’m probably going to be around for at least another thirty years._ It’s a long time to be stuck as something I don’t exactly want to be. _And if the queen’s predictions come true, which feels more and more certain these days… then I’ll be Queen Samn-whatever Star._ Any consideration of being in charge of the entire court is terrifying, of course, but that in particular makes my stomach drop. _Aren’t I a woman?_ I had thought so, and it’s not like I recoil from simply considering myself female in that same way, but something about the title…

“I think it’s burning?”

“Fuck!” I grab a wooden spoon from one of the pots on the counter and stir with a vengeance. The slightly-charred venison separates itself from the base of the hot metal. “Thanks, Briatte.”

“What are you thinking about?” She sets down a water-filled pot on the burner next to me and lights the gas, then adds the potatoes to cook them.

I hesitate. _This isn’t a great time to spring it on her, is it? And besides, what if she starts calling me Sir Schorme and then everyone starts asking questions?_ “Uh… just about what Lady Tiall was talking about.”

Briatte’s brow crinkles. “I know she’s probably having a hard time right now, but… she’s so pushy.”

_That’s one word for it._ The synonyms my brain offers are not the sort I would voice in front of my squire. “Yeah. Hey, you don’t feel like you’re missing out on key information, or whatever, do you?”

“Like what?”

“I mean, you know how to cook, and hunt, and fight, but I guess I’ve only taught you how to skin and quarter a big animal just now,” I muse. “And you don’t know how to change a diaper or figure out why a baby is crying.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to?”

I nibble on my lip, considering how to explain it. “Well, you’ve heard about my… unique situation, haven’t you?”

“How your parents passed you off as a boy for twenty years?”

“Yeah.”

“Did no one know?” I’m guessing from her tone that she’s wondered for a while. She doesn’t quite meet my eyes as she shrinks the flame beneath the pot of potatoes and twists up a timer. “I just… how did you do it? Didn’t everyone know when you were born? And how did they not notice when you… when you… y’know.”

I can’t help laughing a bit at the colour in her cheeks. “I wasn’t the one who planned it. My parents decided before I was born that however I was born, they’d raise me as a boy, and… well, when I was born, it was just my mom, my dad, and Lady Lief.”

Briatte’s eyes widen. “She knew, then.”

“Yeah, and so did the queen and my grandmother, Lady Tali. But they knew my parents’ reasons, and they respected their wishes.” I stir the meat, judging how brown it’s gotten. “And to answer your other question, we, uh… took certain measures. I wore tight-fitting bandages across my chest, kept my voice a little lower than normal, and…” I shrug. “The thing no one seems to realize is that it would literally never occur to you to wonder if someone is secretly another gender.”

“But if they saw you… like, normally, wouldn’t they realize something’s weird?”

I shrug again. “There were a lot of things we couldn’t control. I’m not as muscular as I would be if I’d been born a man, I grew slower and earlier than Duss, Fiyr, Graie, and Ravne. My voice deepened, sure, but it never properly dropped.”

“And no one ever put two and two together?”

“Like I said. It’s just not something you ever wonder about. How often do you consider that Faern might have been born a boy but that my mom and Sir Strommer swore everyone who knew to secrecy?” I suggest. Briatte lets out a bemused laugh.

“I’ve seen her naked,” she answers. “She oversleeps a lot and eventually I just told her I didn’t care if she washed at the same time as me.”

I laugh too, remembering how I would sneak out to the washing rooms early in the morning and keep as many clothes on as possible as I washed. Usually, that meant training with damp under-clothes. “Okay, what about Clowd? He could be a girl.”

“Well, he doesn’t look like one,” Briatte says, then tilts her head as she thinks. “I dunno.”

“You only know what a boy looks like because you were told that Clowd, Sewif, and Thorrin were boys,” I remind her. “Sir Peyelt, Sir Sterrip, and Sir Harte all grew up thinking that I was just another example of what a boy could look like. You aren’t born knowing how to identify men and women.”

“I—shoot!” The potatoes have begun boiling over. She turns down the gas further, waving to dissipate the steam. The stove sizzles as water leaks between the bars. “Why’d your parents do it, though?”

The question brings on a flood of memories, of each stage of my childhood as my parents explained more and more to me. I never questioned that they’d done the right thing, and especially after my father died… I’m silent for a moment, still holding the wooden spoon tight in my fist. Lady Flourer’s gentle questioning comes back to me. “Because they wanted me to learn everything the boys would learn. And because they didn’t want me to shuffled off into the nursery the moment I became a lady of the court.”

Briatte’s brows shoot up. “What?! That’s not gonna happen to me, is it? What’s Thorrin learning that I’m not?”

“No, it’s not going to happen to you,” I assure her. “Not if I or the queen have anything to do with it. But even just twenty years ago, things were different. There would’ve been certain expectations on me if I’d trained as a girl. Sir Strommer wouldn’t have been my mentor, even for a short time, and the queen likely wouldn’t have been either. Maybe your mother or Lady Peilte.”

Briatte nods eventually. “Oh. And they would’ve taught you how to cook and prepare meat and raise kids and stuff.”

“Instead of battle life-force and saving villagers-in-distress,” I finish, nodding. “It’s… I’m not saying cooking and raising kids aren’t valuable skills, because it’s the only reason any of us… you know, are alive, and aren’t starving. But my mom…” I grimace. “She didn’t have the life she wanted, and she wanted to give me the life I wanted. Or at least, the life she thought I would want.”

_And she wasn’t exactly wrong,_ I think. Just the idea of losing all the times I raced Fiyr to a border, or knocked Duss on his ass in a spar, or executed a tricky move with _Sandstorm_ … _Blessed Starlaxi, no._

“She has the strongest life-force at court, did you know that?” I tell Briatte. “I mean, my demonstration was apparently really impressive, and I guess Brembal will give her a run for her coppers when he’s older, but… of all the current knights and ladies, other than the queen, she’s the strongest.”

“Animal summoning, right?” Briatte shakes her head in wonder at the idea. “I flipped out when I summoned my first dog.”

“I remember.” I grin, thinking of how fourteen-year-old-Briatte gathered up the tiny, fluffy black dog in her arms and hugged it, practically bouncing with joy.

“Being able to summon _all_ of them…” Her eyes almost glaze over, imagining. I study her face. _I guess she’d be able to understand it even better than me. What would the equivalent be for elementalists? Mom can’t summon_ anything _any summoner could. She can’t do any plants or trees, so… maybe like solid elementalism. Earth, wood, ice, sand, rock, metal, cloth, ash…_ I survey the kitchen, imagining how much a person could do with full control over nearly everything in their vicinity.

The timer goes off, snapping her out of her daydream. She carries the pot to the sink, and I cut off the gas that feeds the flame cooking my venison. We work on the crust together, and soon enough, a fat, yellow-crusted pie is cooking in the oven, crimped around the edges and glistening with brushed-egg. Briatte wipes sweat off her forehead with the back of one flour-y hand, then sighs.

“Whew. Okay, I’m ready to eat it,” she says, grinning, then turns on the spray of cold water to clean her hands.

“Waiting’s always the hardest part.” As if the memory of our childhood summoned him, Duss appears in the doorway.

“Something smells good in here.”

I smile, and, juxtaposing him with my memory, can’t help cataloguing all the differences in him. He’s still shorter than me, thank the Starlaxi, but neither of us are kids anymore. His jaw’s not as round and pudgy as it used to be, and his hair lies… _flatter_ , let’s say, than it did before. _I guess we’ve both changed a lot._ When he looks me in the eye, his gaze is a little more distant. _And that’s new too..._

“We made a meat pie out of the stag Briatte took down this morning.” _I should pack the other cuts into the icebox. Maybe we can smoke a few, I think the western forests’ training packs are running low._

“Well done,” he offers Briatte and she thanks him. The silence hangs awkwardly. “Well, uh, let me know when it’s ready, I’ll be first in line.”

“We made it for Lady Tiall,” Briatte informs him. “Are you going to cut in line in front of a pregnant woman?”

“Oh! No, of course I wouldn’t! I—oh, you’re joking, aren’t you?”

I hide a grin as I rinse out the pan I used for the meat. _That’s probably why I was closer friends with him than Graie or Ravne… Birds of a feather, and all that._ “You can have some when Lady Tiall’s eaten her fill. Do you know how she’s doing?”  
“No, Lady Fennen isn’t letting any in except Sir Peld,” Duss answers. “Must be weird to be an elder and have kids.”

_Sir Peld’s in his sixties,_ I think. _How much longer will he live?_ It’s morbid, estimating the probable number of years that other people at court have left, but… _It wasn’t easy for me to grow up without a dad. Maybe if Fiyr and I have kids soon… they could grow up with Lady Tiall’s kids. We have time, though, don’t we?_

As our usual supper time rolls around, Lady Tiall is still in labour. Briatte and I are joined by Lady Fuor in fending off the rest of the court from the smell of the pie. She also whips a salad from winter chard and apples with the kind of absentminded deftness that I can only dream of. _I guess a curriculum of almost entirely cooking and castlework results in a few talents._

Eventually, the hordes become too strong and it’s obvious that if we try to stop anyone from eating before Lady Tiall, we might be here for a long, long time and will probably burn a few bridges in the process. Fiyr arrives to help divvy it up, and even after everyone’s gotten their portion and settled down to eat, there’s no sign of Lady Tiall, Sir Peld, or our healers.

“I hope she’s alright,” Fiyr murmurs as we sit. “And I hope Cindra’s okay.”

I nod. He starts on the food in front of him, and I watch him, unable to muster my own appetite.

“S’really good.” His face is a little pinched, though, and I squint at him for a second. _Is it bad? Did he get some of the burnt venison? He’s probably worried about Cindra._

“Are you okay?” Can’t really go wrong with that one.

He sighs and sets down his fork. _Knew it._ “It’s Clowd again.”

“Oh?” _Okay, almost. I still knew something was wrong._

“He wasn’t stealing from the training rations.” Fiyr’s lips purse. _And that’s bad news…?_ “He asked me if he could hunt alone, and I followed him to…” His cheeks redden a little. “I wasn’t… I mean, I just wanted to make sure he was alright.”

“You’re his mentor,” I remind him..

“Right. Well, I saw him go to the gods’ manors. And… he wasn’t there for his mother.” Fiyr swallows. “This god, a really big one with white hair greeted him like they knew each other—he hugged him.”

_What?!_ Words fail for a moment. “I—you—he was… what?”

Fiyr looks sick and pushes his plate away from him. “I think the god was his father. I don’t know how he found him, or how… but they went into the house together and I waited for nearly an hour, but Clowd didn’t come back out until I was back at the castle. I have no idea what they were doing in there, but…”

I shake my head. _Nothing good._ “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes cloud. “What do you think I should do?”

“Well, make sure he doesn’t go back,” I say, mind whirling. _What can he do? Clowd already hardly listens to him._ “You should confront him. He might think he’s doing nothing wrong.”

“He already thinks he’s never done anything wrong in his life,” Fiyr snorts.

“Exactly.”

Fiyr’s face is still creased with worry, but after seeming to think on it for a moment, he nods. “Yeah. You’re right. Hey, Clowd!”

_Shit._ I didn’t mean _now!_ But Clowd’s already breaking away from Sewif, Briatte, and Faern, and I don’t have an excuse handy. Instead, I fix my gaze on my meat pie and get ready to tune out the argument. Fiyr isn’t beating around the bush, at least.

“I saw you yesterday,” he snaps as Clowd sets his food down.

“I saw you too.” If I didn’t already know that Clowd was guilty, I don’t think I would’ve detected the edge in his voice.

_Either he’s a good liar or I’m terrible at reading people. Possibly both._

“After we trained,” Fiyr grinds out.

“I went hunting,” Clowd shrugs and puts a forkful of the meat pie in his mouth, “and I got unlucky.”

“No, you went to the gods’ manors.” Fiyr’s eyes flash.

“What are you talking about?”

“Clowd, I watched you hug the god and go inside with _him_ for hours.” I can tell Fiyr’s reining in his temper. Time to stare at my salad. “Give it up.”

Clowd shrugs again, careless as a summer day. “Dunno what you’re talking about. I hunted in the southern forests.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

It’s genuinely destabilizing to hear Clowd lie so confidently. _Fiyr literally followed him. How could he think there’s a chance of him getting out of this with a good bluff?_

“Whatever. Can I go?” He eyes his food with something approaching disgust and I feel defensive. _Okay, maybe it burned a little! But the crust is good._

“Don’t go back there,” Fiyr orders, then his voice softens. “I know it’s hard for you. But you—”

Clowd lets out a bitter laugh that makes my stomach turn. “No, you don’t. You actually have no idea what it’s like. Can I go?”

“Clowd…”

He stands, grabs his plate, and stomps off to the other side of the dining hall. As he passes the squires’ table, Faern shoots him a concerned look that he ignores. Then he slams his plate onto a deserted table, slumps into his chair, and stares at the food moodily without touching it.

“I’m sorry, Fiyr,” I offer.

Fiyr shakes his head and laughs, a sound uncannily similar to Clowd’s. “What are you sorry for? Every time I try to… I just keep making things worse.”

I cover his hand with mine, and he takes it with a little squeeze. I want to help him, but if I had to make a list of things I’m least suited to handling… “I don’t know what you should do, but… I’m just sorry that he’s doing this.”

Fiyr nods, pursing his lips, then lets out a long, tired breath. The purplish tint to his under eyes makes me think Clowd’s been on his mind a lot lately. I press on his palm with my thumb, rubbing slow circles almost unconsciously. His skin is so rough; had I not noticed before? I suppose we all have calluses.

Cindra takes a seat next to us. I didn’t even notice her come in; she hasn’t got any food. Her face is perfectly blank.

“Cindra…? How’d it go? Is it over?” Fiyr asks, worry rippling over his face as he takes in her empty expression.

“Yes, it’s over,” she rasps, and looks from Fiyr to me. “Lady Tiall’s alright, and they have two sons.”

“Two,” I echo.

“There was a girl, but she wasn’t breathing.” Cindra folds her hands delicately, and I can see them trembling even as her face doesn’t change.

_No_ … I open my mouth, but the words snag in my throat.

Fiyr wraps an arm around her and she starts to cry.

“I knew something would happen,” she says through the faltering breaths. Fat tears spill down her cheeks. “I knew. Because she’s older, and Lady Fennen just—just told her to stay calm when Lady Tiall asked if she was going to be alright—and—”

I have no idea what I can say. I don’t know if there’s anything _to_ say. Fiyr just gently rubs her back, and lets her cry. _It’s not fair,_ is as much as my brain can muster. _It’s just not fair. Why does it keep happening?_ And I know Lady Tiall and Sir Peld must be suffering immensely, but I can’t help my heart breaking a little for Cindra too. _How do you keep going, knowing it’s your job to save people and still lose them?_ Then, remembering my train of thought from earlier… _How can you get through your own pregnancy, knowing the risk?_ I imagine the terror of knowing that the life you carry might kill you. _Or caring for it for nine months, and then losing them? Not to mention the risk of childhood illness…_ How do you suffer that much, and carry on afterward?

Looking at Cindra and Fiyr, though, and remember my father, there’s really only one answer, though, isn’t there? _Because that’s what we do. We keep going, because it’s the only thing we_ can _do. The world hurts us, and we heal ourselves._

I don’t want to say it; it feels almost thoughtless. Disrespectful to Lady Tiall and Sir Peld, or like I don’t understand the depths of their pain. I don’t, it’s true. I can’t fathom it. But even as Cindra cries and Fiyr looks like he’s breaking in two, I know it. _We’ll survive because we have to._ I take Cindra’s other hand and hold it tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor baby. Canon’s a bitch. Comment sir? *shakes can*
> 
> ~Akila


	11. Chapter 11 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaa hello. This one was tough to get out apparently (read: I forgot to publish yesterday)

Chapter 10 - Samn Schorme

We carry on. Like I said; there’s not much we can do other than stay out of Lady Tiall’s way as she silently grieves and keep someone ready to help if their sons start crying. I make a habit of visiting Cindra every morning, and she eventually starts joining Fiyr and I for breakfast. On the rare occasion that Clowd does too, I thank the Starlaxi for Cindra. She seems to understand Clowd in a way neither Fiyr nor I do, even as he grows more distant.

That morning, after a Clowdless breakfast, I seek out Duss to assign him to the head of the dawn patrol. I know it’s suspect to give your friends special treatment like heading the dawn patrol, but Duss and I haven’t been very close lately. And anyway, if I’m senior enough to be captain, then he’s senior enough to lead the dawn patrol instead of Sir Strommer or Sir Wynnd. _Or Lady Peilte, or Lady Fyrra,_ I remind myself. _Whatever. I don’t have to justify myself._

It’s not an official thing anyway, I decide as I find the dining hall and kitchens absent of Duss. And how big of an honour is it to be bundled out the doors into a brisk Thundrian spring anyway? Half the castle is going to be going right back to their rooms for another few minutes of sleep the second the patrols are sorted—who would _want_ to be put at the head of the dawn patrol? _And even if I don’t have to justify myself, I have a lot of good justifications._

“You want me to lead it?” Duss looks a little groggy when I inform him of his appointment. Based on the fact that his tunic is on backwards and his undershirt’s ties are hanging in front, I’m assuming he hastily dressed when I knocked.

I shrug. “Yeah, why not?”

Duss looks down like he’s just realizing his state of messy dress. “Right. Sure. Sure.” Then he retreats farther into his room, almost closing the door on me.

_What in the Blacklands…?_ I stare at the door. _Okay, then._ As I’m walking back to the stairs, it occurs to me that Lady Tiall was something of a mother to Duss. Rabinna, his and Ravne’s mom, died when we were only around four, and Lady Tiall was always around, so even though she was really strict and sharp with us sometimes… I look over my shoulder as I reach the stairs. _I should try to do something for him. Like… uh… hm. Make him a non-burned meat pie._

 _Or try to be a better friend,_ my mind echoes. In the years after Graie left, it just felt like Fiyr and the court needed me so much more, and Duss was getting more friendly with Brakken and Sir Wynnd, and… I sigh. _No excuses. I dropped our friendship, and Duss isn’t the sort to communicate if that hurt him. Things are getting back on track in Thundria, though, aren’t they? And Fiyr’s still sad but we’re all moving on. Maybe I’ll go on that dawn patrol with him._

My plans are first frustrated when I remember what time of year it’s getting to be. _Damn it. Flowerstar’s Day must be fast approaching. A patrol might find the first bloom today, even. I’ll talk to the queen about arrangements after the patrols are sorted._

The second hiccup in Operation Reconnect with Duss is Fiyr. He approaches me just as I’m finishing with the dawn patrol and waving to Duss as he leaves.

“Samn, would you assign me to the Rivien border…?” he asks softly.

_Rivien border?_ “Er, sure…?”

He lowers his gaze. “I just… I thought I might check to see if Graie’s on one of their patrols, or something.”

The admission from the truth-telling resurfaces in my mind and I touch his arm. “I understand. I’ll come with you once I’ve spoken with the queen about Flowerstar’s Day.”

“Thank you,” he rasps, withdrawing again. I watch his ginger head disappear into the crowd and feel an ache in my heart. _I wonder if something today particularly reminded him of Graie._

I turn back to the court, a little warmth rising in my cheeks. _I hope no one thinks that was special treatment. Well, I’ll just give everyone special treatment equally and then it won’t be special._ I sort the rest of the patrols, putting Lady Fuor at the head of one to Shodawa, Sir Strommer to the manors and the outer border, and ask Liang, Brakken, and Mauzian to take their squires on a full day hunting expedition. Liang mutters something about the history lesson he’d planned, but I’m guessing from his meagre protest that he didn’t really want to do it either.

Finally, the activity of the throne room dissipates, and as I guessed, most people who aren’t assigned to a patrol going out in the hour drift back up into the knight’s wing to catch another hour of sleep. I wish I had time to do the same, but holiday preparation calls.

I knock twice, and the queen calls, “Enter!” from within her private chambers. It occurs to me, not for the first time, as I enter that the room has a sort of… extratemporal atmosphere. The lack of windows is at fault, I think. Still, when the door clunks shut behind me, the idea of ‘early morning’ feels very suddenly distant. I wonder if it affects the queen’s sleep. She seems listless today.

“Good morning, Your Majesty.” I bow. The queen stands from her desk, and a quill falls from her hands. It rolls off the desk, but she doesn’t seem to hear its clatter.

“Is it?” She blinks, then looks at the dying flames of the brazier next to her desk. “Hm. Are the patrols sent out?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good, thank you, thank you. Yes, I was…” She trails off, then shakes her head. “No matter. What do you need?”

“I was only thinking… as the snow melts, it must be getting close to Flowerstar’s Day,” I begin, suddenly regretting this. _I shouldn’t be burdening her with this, I can handle it alone._ “And I just… is there anything you want me to arrange for it?”

“The holiday?” She squints at nothing. “Do as you like. It’s hardly the most important to the court right now, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It’s a good chance for new beginnings,” I offer half-heartedly. _Shut up, Samn, just walk away._

The queen smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “You and I both know it’s too late for a new beginning.”

I’m frozen for a moment. “I… yes, Your Majesty.”

“For me,” she adds. “I apologize. You’ll be a fresh start for Thundria. I’ll write to the governor of Centella about providing blossoms for the ceremony, and perhaps Lady Flourer will want to do something as well. Particularly since her son appears to have taken after her in life-force. Dismissed.”

I’m not sure if casually apocalyptic pronouncements or absentminded rambling is worse, but I know that I don’t like either. Still, she said she’d make an effort for Flowerstar’s, and I’ve heard most of her ‘you’re going to be the next queen, so buckle up’ declarations before, so I merely bow and exit in a hurry.

Fiyr’s waiting by the door, and I realize today’s going to be one of those ‘one-thing-after-another’ days. But I’m going to work on my relationship with Duss, the queen is going to participate in a holiday, and I’m supporting Fiyr. That’s as much as I can do. _Isn’t it? Should I be doing more?_

“Ready to go?” Fiyr’s forehead crinkles when he sees my face. “You okay?”

_How does he do that?_ “Uh, no, but I’ll be fine in a minute.” _Just want to go back to bed. That’s hardly something I should bother him with, though, when he’s thinking of Graie._ “Let’s go.”

His concerned look doesn’t fade though, even when we’ve set Blitz and Dune’s hooves on the road to the village of the Sun Rocks.

“You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?”

“Yup.” I take a deep breath of the cool spring air. It’s head-clearing to be out like this; the biting winter wind has softened into spring gusts that snake through the trees, rustling the first leaves that have peeked back out of branches. “Why were you thinking of Graie?”

Fiyr shakes his head, smiling in a heartbreakingly sad way. “Well, you know… It’s just… everything, sometimes. You know?”

I nod, though I don’t. My friendship with Duss fell off because of my own laziness, not because he was torn away from me in an inter-court scandal. “Yeah. What are…” I chew my lip, not sure if I should even ask. “What are you gonna do if you see him?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he says quietly, his gaze turning misty as he looks at the horizon through the trees. “I… I don’t know. I just want to see him.”

Sympathy wells in me. “Yeah.”

In silences like these, I used to wonder if I’d said something wrong or if I was forgetting to do something in particular. I think that’s my favourite thing about Fiyr and loving him; being able to be silent and not be worried. I mean, I’m worried… kind of all the time, these days. About the queen, about the court, about Faern, about Clowd, about Fiyr, about Cindra—but looking at Fiyr, catching his gaze as he looks back at me and smiles… I’m not worried about us. I trust him, and it’s become indescribably valuable to me these days. I just need about a dozen people that I’m absolutely certain I can rely on in all circumstances in my life, and then I’ll stop worrying forever. _And right now I have… Sir Strommer, Mom, and Fiyr. So three out of twelve._

“What are you thinking about?”

“You.” I smile.

He giggles like a squire, some of the tension brought on by the looming uncertainty of Graie’s presence easing from his shoulders. “Really? I was thinking about that meat pie.”

“Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“We can stop and get some training rations.”

“But we’re not training!”

“Oh, who cares?” I shake my head, and grin. “Didn’t stop you when you stole for Yllowei.”

He squawks. “That was like, a decade ago! I’ve given up my bad boy ways.”

“What, and gave them to me? Was that your Union Gift?”

“What in the Blacklands is a Union Gift?”

I laugh too, a sort of helpless, carefree sound that I haven’t made in a long time. “Ah, well, y’see, people in the olden days hated each other so much that they gave each other a bunch of presents to bribe them into Uniting with them.”

“What? Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

“I _wanted_ to Unite with you, idiot.”

He laughs again. “Fine. Then I’m not sorry, and you should be grateful.”

“I am.” I know it comes out like a joke, but the sentiment’s real. _I don’t really know what I did to find someone like him._ “Now, c’mon, let me pay you back with some training rations.”

Fiyr sighs but doesn’t protest as I guide our path over to the edge of a smaller archery range that we don’t usually use. I’ve dragged Briatte there before when I knew Liang was with Sewif on the main one, but I think other than that, it collects dust. We bind our horses to a fence, and I duck into the small adjoining shed by the range to find some hard cheese, jerky, and slightly-bruised apples.

When I return, I see that he’s removed his cloak and laid it on the dampish grass. I plunk down the waterskin and pack of apples and dried venison, then sit next to him. “Why’d you bring a cloak? Can’t heat yourself up, fire-elementalist?”

“In case you got cold.” He says it so simply that I’m almost annoyed at his thoughtfulness.

“Here.” More gruffly than I meant to, I thrust an apple into his hand. As he takes it, I notice that the skin between his palm and fingers is more rough and callused than I’ve seen on just about… anyone else, I think. _Huh._ We make a small picnic of the pilfered rations and pass a half hour in easy company until I eventually look at the sky, considering that the court will wonder where I am if we’re out too long. “Alright. Should we keep going?”

“Yeah.” Fiyr still looks determined, though I’m relieved to see a bit of the death-like pallor has been replaced with a flush of life in his cheeks. _He was probably just hungry,_ I decide as we set off again.

Ultimately, we don’t find Graie.

The Rivien sea is awash in blue, reflecting the spring-sky, and we stand silently at the cliff’s edge for a few minutes, watching the sails of the Rivien galleon billow in the distance. Fiyr takes my hand, and I pull his close as we wait. There’s no sign of a patrol, with Graie or without.

“It was a long shot,” Fiyr says softly as it becomes clear we’ll be here for the rest of the day if we wait for a patrol.

“Yeah.”

“I just wanted to see him.”

“I know.”

And we wait another few minutes, the cool wind reddening our cheeks and raking through our hair. Fiyr offers me the damp cloak we used as a picnic blanket, then sighs.

“Let’s go. Sorry I dragged you out here.”

“Don’t be,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze. “Someone’s gotta patrol the Rivien shore.”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say they’re not planning an invasion.” He motions to the near-deserted waves that lay in front of us.

“Better check the Trace anyway.” It’s a half-joke, but when I do, instead of the sweet villager trace from the village of the Sun Rocks, the residue of Rivien trace-markings, and Fiyr’s own warm, cinnamony feeling, I catch something unexpected. “Do you… feel that?”

Fiyr raises an eyebrow, then his head tilts ever so slightly. He doesn’t even have to close his eyes to shift, but I can tell that he’s in the fifth dimension when a certain otherworldly calm locks his body in place. Then he emerges and his eyes flare wide. “Uh, Shodawes trace…?”

“Shit, you feel it too?” Alarm begins to prickle at the edge of my stomach. _Thought Naitienne was too sick to get out of bed, much less mount an invasion._

“But it’s so weak.” He frowns. “Can’t be more than one or two people.”

“Better find out who.” We hurry back to the horses. I let Fiyr take the lead as we ride down the edge of the cliff, and he spurs Blitz on with his head raised like a hunting dog’s pricked ears, following the trace. We approach the gates of the village of the Sun Rocks, and Fiyr nods.

“It’s coming from in here.”

It’s harder to catch now, despite us being closer to the source, since the villagers are drowning it out, but I put my faith in Fiyr’s skill. “Right. Well, let’s find out what they’re doing in here.”

_King Naitienne’s plenty audacious, but throwing his hat into the ring of the war for Sun Rocks would be pretty fucking stupid, even for him._ Fiyr takes the lead again, in a brisk canter down to the gates of the city. The guards let us through with a flash of our Thundrian emblems, and we ride straight down the main road. After a minute of avoiding trampling villagers and guiding Dune through sharp turns, Fiyr pauses, then doubles back. We’ve reached a less respectable side of Sun Rocks, and I figure if Shodawa would get their hooks in anywhere, it’d be here.

“This is the place,” he announces. “It’s coming from in here. I think.”

“I trust you.” I hop off Dune and study the building we’ve arrived at. It’s made of some cheap white material instead of the more expensive interlocking stones of more… _reputable_ establishments. “A motel? What, are things so bad in Shodawa that they’re running off to be Thundrian villagers?”

I meant it as a joke, but Fiyr shrugs. “Maybe. They looked… _bad_ at that last Gathering.”

_Well, let’s pray to the Starlaxi that I’m wrong._ I check the Trace, but the overwhelming Thundrian villager trace is drowning out any hint of Shodawa. I shoot Fiyr an impressed look and he shrugs.

“Shall we?”

“After you.”

I shake my head at him and then throw open the door. It’s a small lobby, a desk on one end of the room, a few chairs beneath windows at another, and a cramped staircase across from it. The walls are an unappealing shade of yellow and veins of water damage run across the ceiling. The whole place feels unkempt and slightly grimey. A short, heavyset man is behind the desk, scribbling something in a leather binder. _Okay, he doesn’t exactly look like a knight of Shodawa hiding in plain sight._

“Greetings,” I begin and ignore the face Fiyr makes. “I’m Samn Schorme, captain of Thundria’s court. This is my husband, Sir Harte. We’d like to ask you a few questions about some lodgers?”

The villager snaps his binder shut and looks up, common-brown eyes wide. His chin wobbles, then he asks, “You’re from Thundria’s court?”

I look down at my tunic, then up at him. “We are.”

“Oh! I… I see…” He nods, then leans across the counter. “Your friends are upstairs.”

I exchange a look with Fiyr. _If this is a trap…_ “Room number?”

“Fourteen.”

I search his gaze for any sign of conspiracy. _Did Shodawes knights put him up to this?_ It’s hard to gather much except that his lunch had fish involved, based on his breath. “Hm. Thank you.”

I draw back from the desk, and grab Fiyr’s arm as he starts to move toward the staircase.

“Hang on!” I whisper.

“What? Let’s find out what’s behind door number fourteen,” he says, eyes sliding back to the staircase. “I’ve got _Fireheart_.”

“I’d rather not start a brawl in some seedy motel,” I sigh.

Fiyr shrugs. “Well, use your little knock-out move.”

“I don’t want to concuss them either.”

He grins, then tugs free and heads for the stairs. _Well, here we go._ I’m still on high-alert— _Why would he think the Shodawes are our friends?_ —but it’s better than trying to sneak around the side of the building. _If they were bluffing to try to get a room, then they’ll be thrilled to see their_ friends _._ My left hand caresses _Sandstorm_ ’s hilt briefly as I hurry up the creaky stairs after Fiyr.

The halls are much narrower than the knight’s wing and we find ourselves squeezing down them in single-file until Fiyr halts. “Room fourteen. Well, let’s see.”

I check the Trace for a last time, trying to see if _now_ I’ll be able to catch the Shodawes trace, and— _Wait a minute._

Fiyr throws open the door.

_That’s…_

“Cindra?!”

Thundria’s younger healer bolts upright, staring at us like a deer spotting a hunter. Cindra is standing over two men that I recognize as the knights that were caught on our territory last month, both laying on beds that are jammed next to each other. They blink at us with the same wide-eyed confusion as Cindra.

“Oh! Uh, hey!” Cindra smiles, guilt leaking from each edge of her mouth. “What a coinci—er, nice to… heyyy.”

Neither Fiyr nor I move for a good minute. Then Fiyr asks, very gently, “What the fuck?”

It spills out of Cindra. “They were sick! They were going to die, and—and Lady Fennen said that they wouldn’t get better, but I—I started treating them, and they’re getting better, I swear they are! They just needed to be away from their court, because the sickness is all over—I just wanted to save them!”

The two Shodawes knights whose names escape me just watch mutely. A slipshod pile of medical supplies is scattered over the tables next to them.

“Cindra,” Fiyr says, holding up his hands. “Relax. Can you just… explain what’s going on?”

I fold my arms. Cindra gulps.

“Well, the queen sent Lailtle and Weith away and Lady Fennen was scared the sickness would spread to Thundria, and she said that there was nothing we could do anyway…” Cindra shoots them a desperate look. “But I didn’t believe it. And they—they were dying, but now they’re getting much better!”

“It’s true,” the man on the left rasps. He’s not much more than a boy, actually; his face is sallow and puffy like a man far beyond his years, but his wide blue eyes make my stomach twist. “Things are bad in Shodawa.”

_Are they?_ My interest is piqued.

“And maybe only Shodawes can get it anyway,” Cindra says, a defensive jut to her chin. “Because I haven’t gotten sick. And I’ve been really careful! I clean everything and I don’t touch them and I wash my hands—”

I hold up my hand. Cindra falls silent. “You said your names were… Lail-tull and… Weight?” Shodawes names are tongue-twisters at the best of times. I was calling Yllowei ‘yelloh-ay’ for a while. When they nod, I go on, “Your court is so ill that you’d seek treatment in Thundria? What can she do that Med Naos can’t? No offense, Cindra.”

“He’s running out of supplies and the villagers are turning on us,” Weith rasps, shaking his head. “We don’t have the strength to save them from threats and they’re noticing. And since we can’t hold up our end of the agreement…”

My own fear of accidentally razing the Thundria-villages trade agreements surges up at the implications. “He has no medicine?”

Weith shakes his head.

“What about King Naitienne? Sir Faer?” Fiyr asks. “Why aren’t they asking Wynnd or us for help?”

_You know why,_ I think, but I don’t need to say it because Lailtle’s already shaking his head. A lock of limp, greasy brown hair drops in his face, making him look even younger.

“Sir Faer’s dead.” His tone is so bleak it makes my heart drop. “And the king’s not far behind him. He hasn’t appointed a captain.”

_What?!_ That’s a little more serious than friction with villagers over trade. “Then who will lead you?”

“We don’t know!” Lailtle looks on the verge of tears. “We need help, but King Naitienne won’t ask for it, and I think… Med Naos just… I don’t know. He keeps talking about some new beginning for Shodawa, about rising from the ashes, but I think it’s a bit too late for that.”

_Flowerstar’s Day._ I shake my head. _Why is their healer blabbering about a holiday when the court is dying?_

“But I’m going to keep them alive,” Cindra cuts in, her expression fierce. “They’re already so much better, and I think soon enough they’ll be strong enough to go back to their court.”

_But what if she catches whatever it is, and brings it back to Thundria? Lady Fennen’s probably too old to fight off an illness like that._

“How have you been paying for the room?” Fiyr interrupts.

Cindra folds her arms. “I’ve been hunting.”

I blink. Fiyr stares. Cindra frowns at both of us.

“What? I have. Perry and I have an arrangement. He uses the hares to make stews.”

The naked admiration on Weith’s face immediately puts me on guard. _Someone’s a little smitten with the woman who saved his life._ “You’re selling Thundrian game on the side to villagers in order to pay for food and board for two Shodawes knights…?”

Cindra practically bares her teeth. “I’m saving lives.”

And it falls into place. _Speikall’s daughter, Silaverre…_ paired with Cindra’s unfaltering conviction, I feel stupid for not recognizing it faster. _She just doesn’t want anyone else to die, does she? Even if it risks her getting sick, or being punished, or sneaking out of the castle to take care of enemy knights…_ Her compassion puts me to shame.

“I see.” I swallow. It doesn’t feel like enough of an acknowledgement for all that she’s doing and risking. “You’re… it’s very brave of you.”

Cindra squints as if she’s expecting me to add a ‘but.’

“We’ll hunt for you,” Fiyr bursts out. I give him a sharp look, but he continues, “Or we’ll make a deal with the villagers. You shouldn’t have to hunt and help Thundria and help them all at once.”

_Okay, well, hunting on their behalf is…_ That would cross from turning-a-blind-eye-to-rulebreaking into actively participating. Cindra turns her pleading look to me, and something breaks apart in my chest. _Well, don’t I think it’s worth it? Guess it’s time to prove I’m willing to stand up for the right cause._ “Right. Yes. We will do that.” The look of gratitude that Cindra shoots me makes my heart prick. “But… on the condition that as soon as they’re in good health, they’ll return to their court.”

Weith and Lailtle have both sagged with relief against the pillows that I’m assuming Cindra stuffed under their heads to give them some support. The gesture exposes their purplish necks and revulsion worms in my stomach. _They need help,_ I remind myself, but can’t help glancing at Cindra’s neck to see if there’s an abnormal tint to her brown skin. _She’s been careful. Trust her._ And I hope I can. _Then we’ll have four out of twelve_.

“Alright, sure,” Cindra agrees. “That was the plan anyway.”

I stare at the men on the beds. _I can’t believe Sir Faer is dead. He wasn’t at the Gathering, was he? But still… if King Naitienne really doesn’t have long, like Weith says, then Shodawa will be thrown into upheaval. What about his Blessings, though?_

“Right,” I say at last. “Then… carry on, I guess.”

Cindra gives me a tight-lipped smile. I stare at her for a moment longer. _Please let me trust you._ I’m not going to tell the queen, as uneasy as it makes me. _She’s got enough to deal with. And she was pretty clear that she was concerned about the sickness spreading to us. But if Cindra’s being careful…?_

“Samn? Are we going?”

I nod, still half lost in thought as we leave the grimey motel and mount Dune and Blitz again. _The queen doesn’t need to know. I can handle this alone._ My mouth feels very dry. _Don’t lie to yourself. I’m going behind her back. Don’t sugarcoat it either; I’m disobeying her direct order. Well, if she wants me to learn to lead the court, ignoring her and taking things into my own hands is a start._ Maybe once I’m queen I’ll feel less disturbed by doing it.

“What are you thinking about now?” Fiyr’s tone is teasing, but there’s a genuine glitter of concern in his gaze.

“Oh, nothing.” _As long as I’ve got him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you thought! Comments are the best motivation.  
> ~Akila


	12. Chapter 11 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MMMMMLate AGAIN. Sorry fellers. Hope your Christmas was good, hope your non-Christmas holiday was good, hope your normal winter day was good.
> 
> Hope you’re in the mood for some fantasy au. A small reference in this chapter...

Chapter 11 - Clowd

“What’d Air do then?!” I rock forward in the chair Lady Tayel gave me.

Sir Tyle smiles, his hazel eyes getting that little glitter they do when he gets to the end of a story. “He rallied his army and fought his brother. Their war lasted a year, until Air’s wife was finally returned to him and Smoke surrendered. Air and his wife lived happily ever after, and the treacherous Smoke retired to live alone, far away from Air and his kingdom.”

“Wow.” I linger in the satisfaction of a happy ending for a minute as Sir Tyle sighs and lights his pipe. I’ve heard bits of the story before, different characters and different kingdoms from a time before people, but never that one in particular, of the two brothers and their year’s war.

“Are you filling the boy’s head with fluff and nonsense again?” Lady Eie croaks from the doorway. She’s re-appeared with the fruits of her early morning pilgrimage to the kitchen; two steaming cups of herbal tea.

“They’re all true,” Sir Tyle insists, puffing on his pipe, and takes a mug from her. “Thank you.”

Lady Eie rasps a laugh, rolling her milky, sightless eyes. “Clowd, boy, why don’t you run along and get some fresh air? It’s not good for a young man to waste a summer indoors.”

_If I had my way, I’d be outside,_ I think and sigh. “Fiyr’s punishing me for hunting in the wrong place again.”

Lady Tayel clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “That’s no way to encourage a boy to behave better. You need to get your energy out somehow. Why don’t you run along and Sir Tyle and I will take care of the rest of the scrubbing?”

“Really?” I’m already halfway out of my chair.

“What? No, I won’t,” Sir Tyle grouses, still puffing away at his pipe.

Lady Tayel winks at me and I dash out the door. Around halfway through the story about Smoke and Air, I stopped scrubbing at the floor and migrated into one of the padded chairs in the elders’ common room and just listened. But I did scrub _some!_ Besides, I did a bunch of that stuff last week. The elders’ common room is probably getting too clean at this point. And with that, I put the chores out of my head and hurry to the squires’ stables.

Sir Fluffyhooves seems to agree that I’ve been cooped up in the castle for too long; the big white horse snuffles and stamps his hooves against the packed earth when I open the door. I lead him out and head for the enchanted patch of leaves without hesitation. As the familiar frisson of energy tickles its way over my scalp and down my back, I consider the enchantment.

Fiyr told me that was what differentiated god-magic from human life-force—the difference between gods’ precise enchantments and corruptions that persisted for years and a human’s surge of vitality. If you ask me, though, it seems like most of the lines between powers are drawn arbitrarily. My own ‘god-magic,’ if that’s even what it is, is more like elementalism than anything. I can’t cast enchantments, just toss around spikes of corruption like it’s iron or earth. On the other hand, lots of Blessings that we still have around today like the height of Thundria’s supporting trees or the enchanted leaves seem a lot like god-magic. _And more than just the Blessings…_ I wind a finger through Sir Fluffyhooves’s coarse white mane. _If strong summoners like Lady Faise can summon animals and plants that don’t fade when they stop concentrating, like half the horses in the castle, then how’s that different from god-magic?_

Just seems like a lot of excuses to divide people up into categories that don’t really exist. _I wonder how gods think of it. They must know about human life-force—they do spirit-clipping to stop their servants from manifesting it, don’t they?_ I wonder what kind of life-force my mom would’ve had if it hadn’t been taken from her. _I wonder why Fiyr’s is still around._

Sir Fluffyhooves and I ride out of the shelter of trees and along the ridge of a cliff. The land cuts away to my left, descending down, down into a valley of green, and then back up in a blur of trees too far away to pick out the details of, cloaking the hillside town of Trueno. The sky is dazzling summer blue, the kind of day that makes me wish I was still in the nursery with Faern, Briatte, and Thorrin, so we could go out on the terrace and play Shodawa-invasion, or eat the almost-ripe peaches that the morning supply run brought us.

Despite the sudden memory, I turn my eyes back to the path that leads into the trees and nudge Sir Fluffyhooves on quicker. I’m not going for a fun ride across the countryside; I want to see my father. I’ve snuck back a few times as spring turned to the edge of summer, to see the library or the ballroom or the observatory or the gallery, always accompanied by my father. Sometimes we see other gods in the halls, but I haven’t spoken to any of them since that awkward lunch with who I learned was my father’s partner.

The wind ruffles my hair as I ride back into the cover of the trees, and I spur Sir Fluffyhooves into a gallop, eating up the last leg of the journey in a quarter of an hour.

My father is waiting for me at the gate’s edge, the summer sun turning his hair to mercury, glistening and almost rippling as its shades of silver and gray are illuminated. He smiles his glorious smile when he sees me and I practically leap off Sir Fluffyhooves to receive one of his crushing god-hugs.

“Son,” he says, and my mind echoes with _Dejka._

“I missed you,” I admit into his shirt. I love his smell, more than maybe anything else about him. He always smells fresh, clean, and healthy, like just-washed clothes or a new-bloomed flower.

“Will you stay?” He asks this every time I greet him, and usually I play it off with some kind of equivocating statement, but when I pull away… His eyes, like real, heavy blue sapphires, glimmer with a sort of sadness that twists in my heart. “Son, will you stay?”

“I…”

He blinks, then smiles and it’s gone. “Stay one day. One day and one night, yes? Live like we do and then return.”

_And see how much worse it is,_ my brain fills in. I hesitate, searching his gaze for the sincerity from a moment ago. I think I can see it, in the way his brows crease his porcelain skin and his mouth pouts a little. “One day? Okay.”

And he smiles and it’s like the sun’s come back out. “I am glad to hear this. Come, come, we move to the summer land.”

“The what?” He wraps his arm around my shoulders and starts ushering me into the house. Sir Fluffyhooves will be taken by the stablehands now.

“A different house,” he explains, the airiness of his tone making me wonder just how ordinary this is to him. “Better for the summertime. We return in the… the quieting season…?”

“The fall?”

“The fall, yes, the fall. We return in the fall,” he finishes.

“Where is the summer land?” I’m starting to get a little nervous, but I can’t help my curiosity. _They have a whole other house for one season?_ I’ve seen inside the main house, and it’s huge. I can’t imagine what’s missing from it that they’d need a different house for. _And if I stay for a day, am I going to have to travel somewhere?_

“Across,” he answers. “By the silverpeaks.”

_The silverpeaks?_ We looked at maps last time, and I pointed out all the major landmarks of the kingdoms to him. He was very impressed with my description of the solstice pavilion and the village of the Sun Rocks. _That’s so far!_ “How long will it take to get there?”

“You cannot travel on a path,” he muses aloud. “Then, the physical travel… two hours?”

_That fast?_ I’m amazed. A human on horseback could make the journey from Thundria in a _day_ , if they packed light. “Okay! Wow, okay.”

He shoots me an amused look as we enter the library. “The path takes the time of a blink. I can teach you, when you come to stay.”

_Travelling on a soulpath?_ I picture the glassy, river-like paths that cut across Thundria’s territory. Cindra’s staff and uneven gait also come to mind. _What if I hurt someone?_

“It is easier than you think,” he assures me.

_For gods,_ I think. _Maybe I won’t be able to do it at all._ I don’t think I’d be very disappointed. As incredible as it sounds to be halfway across the world in an instant, I don’t know if I’d ever be able to get the image of Cindra’s injury out of my head.

“Do you play?” My father’s question snaps me out of my thoughts and I come over to join him next to what looks like a long, oak table covered in taut strings that sits against a bookshelf. It’s not a table, actually; it’s one massive instrument. It looks like a zither, but far larger and with far more thread-thin strings, many stacked on top of each other.

“Do I play… this? No, I’ve never seen an instrument like this before,” I admit, thinking of the afternoons in the nursery when I was eight or nine and finally bothered trying to pick up an instrument. When Lady Tiall was in a good mood, she’d sometimes alchemize a simple tune for me to copy on a tambourine or a horn. I was never as good as Faern.

He nods, then closes his eyes in concentration. His long white fingers slide between the strings. Then he runs his hands between them.

The sound is almost indescribable. All the words that jump to mind aren’t ones I’d normally put to music—skinny, tremulous, cold, spiralling, painfully sweet and sharp as a knife at different pitches. I shiver. My father only plays the instrument for a moment, its mournful strains tracing webs of sound over the stacks of books and down the hallway, before pausing and turning back to me.

“What’s… what’s that music called?” is all I can really think to ask.

He cocks his head. “ _Aldh caun Hedrsi._ A Cannot-be… hm. A Love that Cannot Be.”

I nod and swallow, finding my mouth dry at the way his eyes glow, like he’s remembering something. Then I ask something that I’ve been thinking about for a long time. “Did you love my mom?”

My father’s pale brows flicker at the question, surprise rippling over his perfect features. Then he smiles in the same sad, lonely way that he did when he asked me to stay. “Yes. I loved her. It was just that, _aldh caun hedrsi_.”

I think of Graie and the Rivien lady that died. I saw him last Gathering, when he came over to see Fiyr, and he commented on how much I’d grown. I hurried off to listen to the monarchs with Faern and the others quires, because I didn’t want to be around when he and Fiyr got all weepy about being together again. I still remember the look in Graie’s eyes, though.

“You are ready to go to the summer land?” my father asks..

I look at him. The sad, remember-y look is gone, but I can still hear the echo of strange instrument in my mind. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

...

I’m not disappointed by the summer land, exactly, but not as utterly cowed as I thought I might be. It’s pretty much the same thing as the manor by Thundria, just framed against mountains and farmland rather than expansive wild forests. Same sweeping, steep-eaved rooves that gleam black in the sunshine, same marble pillars shielding porticoes, and same vast hedges, gardens, and outdoor ornaments. I don’t think I’m going to find my mom sitting with a book, cooling off between performances though.

“Come inside!” my father suggests. “Everyone else is already unpacked.”

_The god-toys already unpacked everyone else,_ my brain echoes. We bundled into an ancient looking horse drawn carriage that I suspect hadn’t been used in a good few years, and I spent the two-hour-journey listening to my father explain all the new things that we could do at the summer land. The only part I really paid attention to is that apparently there’s a nearby family of gods, the patriarch of which offers music lessons. Well, there are a _bunch_ of nearby families of gods with equally unpronounceable names, but they all kind of blurred together. Even the ones that are Very Important and that I should Be Excited To Meet.

What I do gather is that it seems like there’s a lot of competition for status between families. My father informed me that ‘we’ have a whole bunch of ranks and titles that immediately slide off my brain. They’re all long and involve lots of strange words that I’m assuming sound better in god-language.

But now we’re… here, wherever _here_ is. Somewhere north of the outer-Wynnder trace-line, I think. My father ushers me up the cobblestone path, and I fight the instinct to run back to start unpacking the stuff the god-toys strapped to the back of the carriage. _I don’t have to do that stuff anymore. We have a bunch of servants to scrub the floors and move our stuff around._ I shoot a look back at the four men pulling the boxes and luggage off. One of them’s probably not much older than Sewif. _It’d be nice to see him doing work for a change._

Still, there’s a weird kind of slimy feeling in my stomach as we enter the house. My father moves down the halls with a relaxed confidence of the man in charge, as if he either doesn’t notice the shadows of god-toys flitting about, cleaning and preparing the house for his presence, or doesn’t care. I try not to look right at them either; I’ve learned that doing that usually provokes them either sweeping into grand bows or apologizing.

My father brings me into the main foyer, a massive room make of creamy marble and gilded accenting. Despite the thick carpet, I still feel like our steps echo loudly—it’s deserted and almost soundless, save for the trickle of water in the fountain that bisects the grand staircase. We walk up the stairs and I feel like a toddler again; each stair comes up to nearly my shin, but my father has no problem so I rally my strength and huff-puff my way up to the giant hall. It transitions into a colour scheme of green and gold, the same marble floors as are by the library in the other house.

“What do you think?” my father exclaims, sweeping a hand over the interior as if to say _Isn’t it gorgeous?_

“This is really beautiful,” I agree. “It’s so… um, big.”

He seems satisfied by that and starts off down the hall again. I have to almost jog to keep up with his long legs. “You want to see the library?”

I stifle a laugh. Apparently telling him that I was trying to study gods has now cemented in his mind that all I like doing is reading and researching. “Er, do you have an archery range? Or a sparring pen?”

“Fighting?” Dad’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hair line, crinkling his smooth skin. “Do you like to fight?”

_Do I… like it?_ I hesitate. “Yeah, I guess so. I just thought… I thought you might want to see how my god-magic works.” _Doesn’t he want to know how my half-godness affects my abilities? How common are people like me…?_

He nods. “Yes, yes! I am thinking that your aptitude is about books and learning. Or music? We are scholars, in our family. Historians, novelists, and philosophers.”

“Oh, right,” I say, because I’m not really sure what I should answer that with. _Like… elders?_ I want to go back outside and explore the new grounds. The land’s so flat here. Sir Fluffyhooves would love to gallop on a field, I bet. I wonder how you hunt on fields. _Wynnders do it all the time, don’t they?_

“Come, come!” And my father’s dragging me down the hall again. “We will look at all the rooms and then you can choose places to spend time before dinner.”

_Oh, good, dinner…_ I think of my father’s partner and hope she won’t be there.

…

No luck. After an afternoon of _not_ going outside and _ooh_ ing and _aah_ ing over more gigantic, perfectly polished, fancy rooms, my father ushers me back downstairs and into a suspiciously-similar-to-the-other-one dining hall.

The difference is glass wall on the far side; it provides a clear view out into the garden and spills the still-strong light of the afternoon sun into the room. My father seats me next to him again, and sure enough, the moment we’ve sat down, _she_ swans in from the doorway by the windows. A young woman, a human, follows at her side and just behind with a perfectly blank expression. I remind myself not to catch her eye, and focus instead on the god-woman. She meets my gaze, her eyes cool and mouth twisted in the tiniest sneer. Then she glides over to the table, seats herself, and surveys the room with the kind of disinterest that suggests we might all as well be potted plants.

We’re served quickly, cold soup and salads of many different mixes, and then four god-toys in motley dance in. My father claps as they go through their routine, then motions for a servant to serve him more soup. It’s good, like I’ve learned most god-food is, perfectly smooth and tasting faintly of mint and potatoes, but I don’t feel hungry. The performing humans pull off trick after trick, juggling multi-coloured sacks and tucking into rolls and handsprings with the expertise of people who have been training for years. As I watch, though, one of them lands awkwardly out of a flip and stumbles, their cheery expression winding tight as they fight to keep it in place despite the pain, and keep going through their routine. They manage, but I can tell they’re favouring their left foot. Fiyr taught me how to detect physical weaknesses, but I’m not exactly trying to get the upperhand in a border skirmish. Worry wriggles in my stomach as I watch them finish, bow, and hurry out of the room. The injured one is limping slightly.

_Aren’t they allowed to stop if they get hurt?_ I look at my father, who’s gone right back to his salad. _Should I ask…?_ I poke at my soup half-heartedly, then grit my teeth. _Don’t be a coward, Clowd._ “Hey, Dad, can I ask something?” As usual, the out-loud communication feels awkward and out of place in the silent room.

My father sets down his utensil with precision. “Of course!”

I ignore the sort-of-leer on the face of the god across from me and focus on my dad. “Uh, the… the servants, are they… do they like working?”

He blinks and echoes, as if he’s forgotten they even exist, “The servants?”

I point as subtly as I can to the man who just refilled my father’s goblet. At his command, no less. “Like, the humans.”

“Oh, yes, they like working,” he answers easily enough.

I nod, but there’s still a feeling of hesitance in my chest. _What about the one who got hurt?_ “Okay.” I return to pretending to eat my soup.

My father takes my free hand, his crystal-blue eyes serious. “Son, you are caring of others and I am glad. You can speak to them yourself after dinner.”

I perk up. “Really?” _I could talk to actual god-toys about how they’re treated?_ That eases the feeling in my stomach. _Then there must be no problem if my dad has that much faith that the god-toys are happy in their predicament. Still, it’d be nice to talk to them._ I finish my soup quickly; it _is_ good. My father beckons over the man who refilled his cup and murmurs something to him.

Dad touches my arm when I grab my bowl, ready to bring it to the kitchens, and I let go of it. _Right, right, don’t have to clear my own place._ We’re the first to leave the table, out a side door deeper into the mansion, and I feel my father’s partner’s eyes following me.

“It is down here,” he explains as we duck into a smaller hallway. The ceiling is so low that my father has to bend a little. “It is a group I started. I wanted to talk to some servants to check in with to make sure everyone is happy.”

“Really?” I’m impressed. _He must care a lot about them to start something like that._

My father smiles at me, and even in the low-light of the servants’ hallway, his eyes twinkle. “Of course! It is important to me.”

Warmth blooms in my chest, and I smile back up at him. Then we stop in front of a wooden door not unlike one I’d find in the knights’ wing and my father pushes it open. Inside are about a dozen humans, ranging from an older woman whose common-brown hair is streaked gray to a boy who can’t be more than eleven or twelve. They all have the same pale skin as my mom and Fiyr, and they all look pleased to see my father.

“This is my son,” my father exclaims, clapping me on the shoulder, and then motioning for me to sit. The room is way smaller than the other ones in the mansion, which is to say a normal size. It looks like it’s mostly used for storage, based on the crates of root vegetables stacked against the far wall and the lack of windows, but a bunch of chairs have been arranged in a circle for the god-toys. I sit gingerly in one of them.

The god-toys bow to me, then sit as well. My father stays standing.

“He wanted to ask about your experience working for the family,” my father continues. The god-toys seem faintly impressed by his command of our language and I flush with pride. _Probably my doing. I guess he doesn’t talk to people in our language very much._

“Yeah,” I say, fighting the urge to play with my hair like Fiyr. “Uh, I’m… I’m only half-god, I was raised by my human uncle.”

The god-toys’ round eyes move to me, their faces unreadable. I falter.

_I’m one of you,_ I try to transmit to them. “But, uh, my dad offered to let me come live here. And I just noticed… um, how much hard work you do.” I swallow. “And I wanted to ask if you guys are, like, happy…? Do you like your work?”

The older woman I saw before nods. “Yes. It is very fulfilling and enjoyable.”

The stilted language makes me falter again, and I dart a look at my father. He looks on proudly. “Right. And if you get sick, or—or hurt? I mean, you don’t have to keep working through it?”

“One time, I—” the young boy begins, a slight lisp from a missing molar lending an innocent tone to him. The woman next to him, in her twenties I would guess, grabs his hand and squeezes it, giving him a look.

“Yes. We are healthy and happy,” the older woman who first spoke assures me. Her dark eyes are hard to read, but I think I’ve gotten good at telling when people are lying after growing up with Sewif and Thorrin. There’s a tightness to the purse of her lips, the way her gaze keeps sliding to my father that makes me think she’s not being completely transparent. My father doesn’t seem to pick up on it at all.

“Okay. That’s good.” I stare at her, trying to somehow make her see that I’m trustworthy, but she doesn’t even blink. I search her face for a moment, then turn back to my dad. “Okay. Yeah, I think I’ve seen enough.”

“Thank you, everyone,” my father says brightly to the group, then follows me out the door back into the hallway. As we go, I catch sight of another woman across the hall; she’s probably only a few years older than me. When our eyes meet, she doesn’t curtsy or scurry away, just tilts her a head a little, eyes narrowing. Then she disappears out another door. _She’s familiar, isn’t she…? That’s the woman who was following my father’s partner into the dining hall. Did she ask her to spy on me or something?_

My father doesn’t seem to notice her and starts leading me down the same hallway, toward where she disappeared. Even as we reach the end, though, and move back into the main mansion, there’s no sign of her. _Weird._

“Let’s go to the library!”

I sigh, but smile at my dad anyway. _I’m only staying for a day, so I should take advantage of the opportunity to research gods while I still can._

Unfortunately, it quickly becomes clear that most of the books are written in the same stream of squiggly god that I have absolutely no hope of reading. My father guides me to the small section of other-language books near the back, then returns to his place deep in shelves. I watch him go, then turn back to the bookshelf of possibly-readable books. I ignore the couple of shelves dedicated to elf records, orc-tongue, and—dragon scrolls? _Blessed Starlaxi._ My curiosity is piqued, but I can’t make heads or tails of the markings that stretch over the page. It’s not even linear; I might be holding it upside down, for all I know.

Instead, I turn my attention to the books written in the common language. I run my fingers over the spines of the novels, thinking of my mom. _The Queen’s Journey over the Sea_ sounds like something she’d like. I’m not really in the mood to curl up with a book, though. I don’t know if I ever have been. What catches my eye is the god-toy non-fiction. _History of Servants. Soul-clipping. On Captivity._ The titles make my stomach turn and I listen for the sound of my father’s footfalls. _Why do they keep books like this?_ Then I find the last book in the row, a slim, green volume. _Songs of Kept People._

I remove it from the shelf carefully, knowing some of the books are so old they’ll fall apart in my hands if I’m not careful, then open it to a random page. _God-toy’s Lullaby._ It’s a sheet of music with the lyrics compiled at the bottom. _Huh. Wish I could read music._ I never stuck with the tambourine long enough for Lady Tiall to get her hooks into me. Still, I’m hesitant to pop the book back onto the shelf for some reason.

_Maybe I could get Lady Tiall to play it for me. Or that god music instructor nearby,_ I think. _I shouldn’t take it out though._ Instead, I move to one of the desks in the main area of the library and start copying the bars as best I can. My penmanship is wobbly at the best of times and trying to draw straight lines results in mostly weird, wavery streaks of ink. Still, after a few minutes of eyeing the page and then trying to reproduce it on the thick, creamy paper on each desk, I think I’ve got it more or less copied. I blow on it gently, hoping it’ll dry enough that I can fold it and slip it into my pocket.

“Clowd?”

I stand at the sound of my father’s voice, tucking the paper away and praying to the Starlaxi that it doesn’t smudge beyond legibility. “Yeah?”

“I will show you to your rooms,” he offers, coming over to the desk.

_Rooms, plural?_

…

Despite the incredible luxury of the giant bed with its silky sheets and piles of pillows, I have trouble falling asleep. I know Fiyr’s probably pulling out his hair back at the castle now that it’s dark and I haven’t come back. _He’s going to be so mad when I get back._ I imagine all the chores that are waiting, then think of all the servants of the mansion. Which makes me think about the group of god-toys in the dark room and the woman lying. _Do they have it hard, and she was just lying because she though that’s what I’d want to hear? Or was it because my dad was there?_

I close my eyes and don’t fall asleep for a while. I think of the squire’s wing, where if I tried really hard and held my breath, I could hear Faern’s breathing in the nook next to mine. I used to find it annoying when I was trying to sleep and I could hear them all snuffling, but now… The manor’s eerily silent.

A god-toy arrives to wake me up by lighting the fireplace that’s in my room and I stumble out of bed, still in the weird sleep-clothes I found in the dresser. I debate between what I’m assuming are day-clothes that look way too big or my uniform from yesterday, then tug on my uniform. _It’s mostly clean, anyway._

I regret my choice when I arrive in the dining hall for breakfast and get a venomous once-over from _her_. Still, shuffling to my seat in a baggy robe doesn’t sound like it would’ve gotten a better reaction. My father’s already in place at the head of the table, and gestures for me to sit at his right-hand, as usual. _As usual. Do we have routines now?_ I’m leaving today, I think, though as we begin eating, my father says nothing about getting back to Thundria. _Maybe later, then._

The food is hot and tasty, and I feel a sudden burst of warmth at the idea that meals could be enjoyable, now. I’m not going to have to choke down weird, slimy, sharp-tasting foods or try to plug my ears and hold a fork at the same time in order to avoid slitting Sewif’s throat. The gods all eat with silent, perfect bites, and the food seems designed for people with tastebuds like me. _Of course._

I sniff the slightly foamy brown liquid in my mug, then drain the whole thing when I realize it’s hot chocolate. I only had it twice; once when Samn and Fiyr took me and Faern to the village of the Sun Rocks for the trade fair, and the other time at Samn and Fiyr’s Union-slash-Snowstar’s Eve feast. A god-toy steps forward, leaning delicately over the table to refill my mug with a carafe of it. As she draws back, she’s a moment too slow tilting it back upright and it drizzles over the tablecloth and into my lap. There’s not enough of it to burn me, and it’s barely noticeable on my black pants, but she immediately bursts into a tizzy of apologies.

“It’s fine, it’s really fine,” I assure her, swiping the napkin out from under my fork before she can grab it and dab away the spilled drink.

“I’m so sorry!” she repeats, and I look up to give her a reassuring look. Our eyes meet and I force myself not to react when I realize it’s the same woman who I saw following around my father’s partner, and then also in the halls by the servants’ group. “Here, let me!” And before I can protest, she drops something small and white into my lap, grabs the soiled napkin, and replaces it with a fresh one on the table in a single movement.

Then she steps back to the edge of the room, and I’m left a little agape at her swiftness. My father smiles at me, shaking his head a bit as if we’re in on a joke, and I force a smile back, not looking down at what she left in my lap. I take a sip of my second cup to cover the movement as I reach into my lap and close my fingers around it.

It’s a slip of paper, thin and folded twice. I quickly tuck it into my pocket with the lullaby, and finish my breakfast. My father doesn’t notice.

_I trust him,_ I think, guilt worming in the pit of my stomach as we stand to leave. _I do, but if she doesn’t want to tell me something in front of him, then I should follow her example, right? I’m sure it’s nothing._

“Well, son, what will you do today?” he asks as we leave the dining. “I have work to attend to.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine on my own!” I assure him, heart leaping. _Well, that works out perfectly! I don’t want to bother him._ “Uh, I think I’ll go out to the gardens.”

“Good, good! I will see you,” he promises, already stripping away from my side. I wave to him as he heads down the hall, moving much quicker with his long legs than he does when he walks with me. Once he’s gone, I realize this is the first time I haven’t had him escorting me around the manor. The rooms somehow feel even bigger and emptier. The bit of paper feels as heavy as a horse in my pocket.

I hurry out to the gardens, looking nervously through the massive windows from the outside, into the dining hall. It’s godless, but god-toys swarm the table, loading their arms with the mostly-uneaten food and disappearing back into the halls. _What do they do with all those leftovers?_ I don’t have time to contemplate it, though; I want to know what the note says.

The moment I’m out of sight, shielded by a giant rosebush, I fish it out of my pocket and unfold it. It’s only two lines, and looks like it was written as quickly as possible. The letters smudge together a bit, but the handwriting is precise.

_Go back to the cellar in two hours if you want to know the truth._

And beneath it is a messily drawn symbol. It’s familiar, but I can’t quite place it; two leaves joined at the tip, spreading away from each other and pointed upwards. I turn my attention back to the words, and take a hasty breath at the implications. _The truth. I knew there was something going on. Where’s the cellar?_ The woman saw me in the room with the root vegetables. _Probably down there._ I crumple the note and stuff it back into my pocket, then try to figure out how to kill two hours alone in a massive garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh yall I’m excited for this one. Comment your predictionsss
> 
> ~Akila


	13. Chapter 12 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesss here we go. By the way! I’ve published two other things today; Twelfth Grade, my high school AU, and Muffle, my very Long ivyblossom one-shot so please check em out if you’re in the mood!

Chapter 12 - Clowd

My first clue that I might be in over my head is when a burly man nearly a head taller than me double-bolts the door the moment I’m inside.

The mostly bare cellar that my father brought me to last night has been transformed into something that calls to mind the glimpse I’ve seen of Queen Bluelianna’s private quarters. Austerely detailed maps are blackened with notes in looping handwriting, crammed on each plot of land. The room is equally crowded—I catch sight of a few of the dozen I met with yesterday, but they’re all engrossed in conversation with others. All the activity revolves around a woman seated behind a desk that wasn’t there yesterday. I spot the girl who slipped me the note. She’s deep in conversation with the woman at the desk, and after a moment, turns and points at me. I look back at them, unsure of whether I should wave. _Where… am I? Who are all these people? And what truth are they going to tell me?_

“I call this meeting to order!” the woman behind the desk announces, holding up her hand for silence. As she does, I note that her upper arm is tattooed, bared by the sleeveless brown tunic she wears, Wynnder in style and cute.

_The symbol on the note._ I realize why it’s so familiar. _That woman by the kitchens, when I first came to see my father._ The symbol on the note and that woman’s tattoo is the same as the tattoo of the woman by the kitchens. They’re not the same woman, I’m certain, even though it’s hard to see much of her features; the woman by the kitchens was in her forties at least and quite heavyset.

I try to see if the girl who gave me the note has the tattoo as well, but I can’t find her in the crowd. The woman in charge is much younger than the woman who had been by the kitchens, in her twenties or thirties, maybe, and skinny as the trunk of an elm. As she surveys the room, I catch her eye. Her face is small and thin, each sharp feature pointing to her dark eyes, as watchful and still as a falcon’s. I’m pretty sure her nose has been broken at least once.

“Order!” she calls again. The room falls silent. Then her knife-like gaze pins itself to me again. I notice that a lot of the room is staring at me, and I squirm. “As many of you may have noticed, we have a stranger in our midst.”

I take a hesitant step towards her desk, feeling everyone’s eyes following me, picking out how unnatural my hair is, how big I am for a kid who doesn’t look more than eighteen. _I wonder what they’d say if they knew I was only thirteen._

“This is the master’s bastard son, half-god and probably the product of a liaison with one of ours,” she tells them with no warm-up. Surprise ripples over the group, and I think if anyone wasn’t already staring at me, they sure are now.

I fold my arms, trying not to be intimidated. Even standing over her, in front of the desk, it feels like she has complete control. She watches the crowd with those eyes that miss nothing, gauging their reactions. _She’s the reason I’m here, isn’t she?_ I eye the girl that slipped me the note, who is now leaning against the desk and also watching the crowd as they murmur amongst themselves. _Maybe she wasn’t spying for my father’s partner after all_. _Maybe she was spying for this woman._ Then I turn back to the falcon-faced woman behind the desk. “Why am I here? Who are you?”

She holds up a finger. There’s soil beneath her nail. “We’ll get to that. What are your capabilities? How much of your father’s god-magic got transferred to you?”

I scowl as she studies me. I thought I was getting good at reading people, even god-toys that I’d never met, but her stare is like a brick wall. “None of your business. Tell me who you are, or I’m leaving right now.”

Yeah… I’m leaving right back through that locked door guarded by two big men. I don’t even have _Papercut_ on me. _Awesome. Good planning, Clowd._ I swallow, but my mouth is drying. _I should’ve just stayed in Thundria. What in the name of the Starlaxi was I thinking with this? I’m not a god. I shouldn’t get tangled up in their affairs. What kind of weird, underground cult is this?_

“Fine.” Her thin lips draw up in a theoretical smile, but the canny, evaluating look doesn’t leave her face. “I’m Violetta. What’s your name?”

Her tone’s almost mocking, but I don’t have a reason to keep it from her. She probably doesn’t even know I might be giving away my life-force. “Clowd.”

“Nice to meet you, Clowd.”

I look around the room. Everyone’s silent, watching. Some people fold their arms, returning my gaze with chilly stares like they’re expecting me to whip out a dagger. As I examine them, I see that everyone whose upper arms are uncovered sport the same tattoo; two leaves, joined and pointed upward. _So everyone’s got matching tattoos and they sign their weird, suspicious notes with it. Definitely a cult._

“Who are they?” I ask, turning back to Violetta.

“ _Employees_.” Her tone is laced with venom even as she smiles again. It feels like a knife thrown at me, but I can’t figure out why. Then she stands and I notice she’s got a shortsword hanging from her belt. I wonder if she knows how to use it. “They serve your father.”

I glance over my shoulder again at the dozens of unfriendly faces. _They’re all god-toys that work here…?_ “Okay. Is this… is this because of yesterday, when my dad came down to show me that you guys were happy?”

Violetta’s mouth twitches, but instead of lashing out again she tilts her head. A black braid, sleek and shiny in the torchlight, flips off her shoulder and dangles behind her. “How old are you, Clowd?”

“Thirteen,” I admit, wishing my voice came out less weak. “Uh… ma’am.”

She blinks twice and then nods very, very slowly. “ _Ah_. Okay, sit down.” She gets me a chair, then walks back around to sit at her desk, looking something close to guilty. “Sorry about the circus. One second.” Then she cups her hands around her mouth, which is pointless because everyone in the room is already hanging onto her every word, and calls, “Alright, meeting adjourned. I’ll speak to him alone and update you all through Zem.” She nods to the burly man who bolted the door, who then unbolts the door and lets everyone file out of the room. I catch a lot of curious stares, but at least they’re gone now. The second-to-last to leave is the girl who gave me the note. She peels herself off the desk, stretches out her arms in a forcedly careless action, then looks back at Violetta. Violetta gives her a small nod, and something passes between them. Then the girl nods back and walks out the door. Zem closes the door after himself, though his footsteps don’t retreat. I’m guessing they’re both still stationed right outside.

Now that I have the chance to focus on Violetta alone, I notice the way she holds herself; shoulders up and back, and chin down a little like she’s trying to show how concentrated she is on me. With everyone gone, she softens a little, leans back in her chair and sets her hands down, empty, on the surface of her worn desk. I don’t let my guard down completely, though; they know I’m half-god and that I might have powers of some kind, and yet that big guy, Zem, and whoever the girl that was probably spying for Violetta is were fine with leaving us alone. I’ve also never seen a god-toy carrying a weapon. _She definitely knows how to use it,_ I decide.

“Clowd,” she begins, and now even her voice is different. Less… accusatory. “You asked your father if god-toys were treated well?”

I shift in my seat like I’m expecting a sneak attack. _Is this a trick question…?_ But the totally unreadable wall she put up is gone; she just looks concerned now. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“What…?” I falter, but she doesn’t elaborate further. Her gaze might not be as sharp or cold as it was before, but the feeling of being tested hasn’t disappeared. “I… I asked him if you were treated well because…” I furrow my brow. _Why_ did _I do it?_ I’m not usually the type to dissect every one of my motivations for everything I ever do. “My uncle raised me, and he was a god-toy. And where I live, being a god-toy is seen as, like, I dunno. A bad thing, I guess. And then yesterday, there were acrobats and stuff performing—my uncle was an acrobat—and I saw one of them stumble and it looked like they hurt their ankle, but then they just kept going and they were smiling even though it looked like it really hurt, but no one said anything, and…” I trail off.

“Where did you grow up?”

It’s hard not to ramble in the face of her expectant look. “Um, in one of the kingdoms—Thundria. My uncle ran away and joined the court when he was really young, and then when my mom realized she was pregnant, she gave me away to him.”

Violetta’s face flashes with surprise. “Thundria? I know someone who… hmm. Alright.”

“Why are you asking all this stuff?” _What would my dad think of these people? Does he have any idea this is going on?_

She folds her hands, then leans back in her chair and gives me another appraising look. “I can tell you, but you’ll have to promise not to run and tell your father.”

“Huh? I…” I find myself chewing on my lip like Faern. “Why? What would he do?”

“Kill all of us.”

“ _What_?! No, he wouldn’t.”

Violetta’s face gets a little colder, one feather closer to falcon-woman. “Clowd, I know it isn’t easy to hear. Just listen, alright? You don’t know me, but you know I’m a god-toy that’s worked for your dad, right?”

I nod, discomfort worming in my stomach. _Kill them? My father wouldn’t kill anyone unless his life was in danger. It’s against the knight’s code._

“I wasn’t born a god-toy.” The intensity of her stare makes me shrink and she seems to see that, leaning back in her chair and lowering her voice as she continues. “My brothers and I were born in a village, a few leagues north of here. We left to find our fortunes, and while my brothers went into farming, I hoped to get a job in one of the beautiful mansions I saw as a girl, walking with my father. I was fourteen. They took my life-force, and now I can’t leave. I am not an _employee_. I am a prisoner.”

I’m mute.

“Being paid in food-and-board with no option to leave is not _work_.” Her hands curl into fists on the table. “And every one of us is in the same situation. Most were born into it, and many don’t even know there’s another option besides working for the gods until we die. I’m trying to change that, and I think you might be able to help us. But if your father discovers this insurgency, understand that when I say you will destroy everything we’ve tried to build and we will all be dead.”

She seems to realize I’m stiff as a board and more than slightly terrified. Violetta relaxes a little and reaches out to touch my hand. Her hands are rough as sandpaper.

“We’re not asking you to lie for us,” she says. “Just that you don’t tell your father.”

“Isn’t that lying?” I protest.

“No, it’s… omission.” Her lips twist wryly, and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have involved you if I had realized just how… young you are. But still, even if you can’t… take on the responsibilities that I envisioned, I think you can do a lot of good for us. You said you were from Thundria, correct?”

My eyes drift to the map behind her. Notes and annotations crowd over all the manors and farmlands, but the stretch of land that I’m assuming is the kingdoms, based on the placement of what’s probably the Rivien sea and the moors of Wynnd, is almost completely blank.

“Yeah.”

She contemplates me in silence for a moment, and then her eyes drift up, unfocusing as if she’s picturing something in her mind. Her gaze returns to me. “I’ll be perfectly clear. My end goal is the liberation of all god-toys, through any means necessary. You and your kingdom are in a unique position to help us; _you_ have the trust of the gods, and your kingdom has a fighting force that could go up against them.”

I’m already shaking my head. “ _No_ , no, we—they—we don’t have enough—we’re not strong enough to defeat gods. We couldn’t fight them.”

Violetta raises a dark brow. “No? With the advanced life-force and organized warfare of the kingdoms...”

I think of Cindra, of the destruction wrought on her life just by the gods’ carelessness. What would the focused wrath of the gods look like? They could wipe Thundria off that map. _If Violetta’s right, if my father really would…_ My heart twists at the thought of my father attacking Fiyr, Samn, Faern. _Would he? I don’t know Violetta._ But I admit to myself that I don’t really know _him_ , either. _I only met him a few months ago. That’s not long enough to make a good judgement, is it? Anyway, even if Thundria_ could _just storm the manors and free all the god-toys…_

“What about your spirits? Your life-force?” I point out.

“What do you mean?” Her brow furrows.

_What? Does she not know about…_ “You said they took away your life-force, right? That’s… you can’t survive without your life-force. Being near the gods’ magic is what’s keeping you alive; if you kill them or run away somehow, you’re just going to eventually die…” I trail off as her expression makes it clear this is the first she’s hearing of it.

“The life-force wouldn’t return if we left the gods?”

I pause. Thundria’s collection of admittedly-small research made it seem like there was pretty much no chance of survival. “I don’t think so. It’s… once it’s gone, it’s gone. Spirit-clipping is supposed to be permanent. But…” I hesitate. _Is it even worth mentioning?_ “I did find something that suggested there was a cure… at least at some point, a long time ago. I have no idea what it was, though.”

Violetta purses her lips, then nods. There’s steel in her spine as she straightens, and I get the impression that her fight for freedom has been rife with setbacks, which doesn’t really make me feel any better about being the bearer of another one. “We will find it, then; if it exists anywhere in this world, we _will_ find it. This is valuable information. Thank you.”

I’m left sort of speechless just by her sheer tenacity. _I just told her that if she gets free, she’s going to drop dead, and she’s… more committed to it than before_. “I… I’m sorry. I just don’t think I can help you.”

“Then all you can do for us is keep this a secret from your father.”

She pauses and I’m quick to agree, stumbling over my words. “Of course. If you really think he would…” My voice fades. I don’t even want to voice it, but instead of contemptuous, she just looks pitying.

“If you return to Thundria, please pass word of us to your monarch.”

“Queen Bluelianna…?” I think of the queen and her absence from the court’s affairs. _More like pass the word to_ Samn _. She’s probably going to be really angry when I get back, too._ “Yeah, okay. What’s… do you and your group have a name?”

She smiles thinly and shifts one shoulder forward to display the mark on her upper arm. “Layli dubbed us the Mer-marked. And I suppose it’s good to have an identifier.”

It’s then that I realize the tattoo’s not two leaves at all, but a small, stylized fin.

 _The Mer… they know of the maiorum? Or at least ‘Layli’ does._ I’m assuming the name belongs to the girl who slipped me the note. _I guess we’re all descended from them, including villagers and god-toys. The woman in kitchens was part of the group too. How many of my father’s god-toys are plotting against him?_ I stare at the ink on her pale skin for another moment, trying to ingrain it in my memory, then nod. “Alright. I… I hope we can help… someday.”

Violetta stands finally and motions me to the door. “I hope so too.”

...

When I leave the cellar, my heart beating in my throat, I find my father waiting for me in the gardens.

“Clowd!” He always smiles when he sees me. Usually, I don’t have to force the smile back.

“Hi, Dad.”

He pats the bench he’s sitting on, beckoning, and I have to boost myself up to get onto it. My legs dangle.

“Are you still interested in music?”

_Since… yesterday?_ “Yeah?”

“The music teacher nearby is hosting a dinner tonight and has offered attendance to us,” my father tells me, looking pleased with himself.

_A dinner with other gods?_ I know I’ve eaten with my father’s family, but this feels… more. Besides, I was supposed to leave today! _Will one more day hurt?_ Maybe Violetta will tell me something else. Or I can find proof that my father would never hurt anyone. _But even if he hasn’t hurt anyone directly,_ a new, quiet voice whispers. _He keeps people. You heard her; they can’t leave. What kind of life is that?_ Even if being a Thundrian sucks sometimes, I’m not stuck in the castle. I have enough freedom to run off and stay with my god father, anyway. _But Fiyr and Samn are probably worried sick._

“What do you think?” my father prompts.

“I won’t…” I swallow. “I won’t be able to talk to them.”

“Yes you will.” He waves his hand dismissively. “You have used our mental link. You can speak with images to everyone at the party.”

_That’s true, but…_ I’ve started sending him pictures the same way he’s sent them to me, just by focusing really hard on him and imagining him seeing whatever it is I want him to, but it’s hardly precise. Just the idea of trying to push through the clunky language barrier while everyone else chatters easily makes my face burn.

“Do you want me to go?” I search his face, worrying. _Will he be mad if I say no?_

He gives me a sunny smile. “It will be fun! You can meet gods your age. Many pretty girls. I will show you how to get ready. You can take a path.”

“What? A soulpath?” Protests rise in my mouth but he’s already on his feet, waving for me to follow him. I try to cobble my fears together into a coherent refusal, but all I can think is Violetta’s flat answer to my question about what he would do if he knew about the Mer-marked. _Kill all of us._ I look at the giant man— _God,_ I remind myself—striding down the garden path toward the house and try to make sense of the two different versions; the god who keeps dozens, maybe hundreds prisoner, and my father, who’s been nothing but patient and kind. _I guess he’s made it really clear that he wants me to stay with him. But I can still go back to Thundria, right?_ The reminder twangs guiltily in my mind. _I need to leave._ “I was… I should go ho—back.”

My father looks back, almost confused, then laughs it off. “No, no, after the party. You will see what life as a god really is.”

_And then you won’t want to go back._ He keeps saying stuff like that, like he already knows what my choice is going to be. _Because he thinks his life is great, or because he won’t let me say no?_ Dread thuds into the pit of my stomach, and I follow a little further behind him, _really_ looking at him. _I’m stronger than most people, I know, but I’m still a kid… and Dad is…_ He’s tall, strong, experienced, and if Violetta’s to be believed, not keen on letting people leave his possession.

“Come! You will love the mirror,” he promises over his shoulder, hauling open the door of the house for me. I step through, aware of his huge presence behind me in a new way, and try to puzzle out that one. _The mirror…?_

Then he leads me up the stairs, past the fountain, and into my own chambers. Someone’s made the bed and put away the sleep-clothes that I left in a heap at the foot of it. _Not someone. Zem or Violetta or Layli or that little boy with the lisp or the woman who lied to protect him._

“Come, come.” My father steers me over to one end of the room, in front of a white desk with a mirror mounted on the wall behind it. The mirror is as large as a tapestry, stretching wide enough that I can see my body from the waist up. Even my father’s full stature is captured in the surface of it.

“Another use for our magic,” he explains, motioning to the mirror with a wide smile. I meet my own eyes in it, feeling suddenly small and odd compared to my father. I look like a shoddy painting of him.

“How?”

“Look!” he exclaims, then reaches out to touch the surface. It ripples like a silver pool, distorting our reflection, then a moment later, it stills again. I stare into it, trying to figure out what he just did. My eyes sting.

I examine his reflection, but there’s no change. Then I look back into my own eyes and my breath catches in my throat. My eyes. He darkened my eyes a couple shades, closer to his own cobalt rather than the sky blue they were before. Once I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it; it feels like it changes my whole face. My gaze is more intense, less… less human. No human has eyes this colour.

 _Is that what the tingling is?_ I reach up, fingers brushing my eyelashes. It’s faded now, but the face in the mirror still has the same odd eyes. _Are they real?_

“You changed my eyes,” is really all I can manage.

“I can undo it,” he assures me, and touches the mirror. In a heartbeat, I’m back to normal. The churning subsides in my stomach.

“This is… preparing for the party?” _Changing your face?_

“It is expected to change sometimes!” He shrugs and smiles at himself in the mirror. “Here.” He reaches out again.

“Wait!” I find myself exclaiming. His finger pauses mid-air. “I… um, can I try?”

He smiles again, perfectly even. I wonder if mine is that symmetrical. “Yes! You try.”

_Okay, let’s hope I don’t totally destroy my face…_ I picture the change, trying to cement it in my mind as I reach out and touch the mirror. I don’t know if it’s the mirror or me making it happen, but a moment later, it ripples and I feel my nose burn like I’m about to cry. Then I pull away and brush my fingers over the bridge of my nose.

Sure enough, the little concave curve that Fiyr and I share is gone, replaced by the solid, straight line of a Thundrian.

“Your nose?” My father wrinkles his own button-like nose. “That is not… why don’t I change your face for you?”

I open my mouth, ready to protest, but he’s already touched the mirror. A moment later, my whole face begins to get itchy, like feathers are brushing over it. The mirror stills, and a feeling of strong discomfort settles in my stomach. It’s… me, but only barely. I raise my hands to my face, and the familiar stranger in the mirror does the same. Tracing that extra-curved nose, my newly mature features, the darkened eyes and the white-milk skin... I look like a god. No... I look exactly like my father. Every trace of Mom and Fiyr has been scrubbed away.

“You see?” Pride radiates from his smile.

“Wow,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. _I want to go back!_ So many subtle changes, all layered over each other. The line between this new, god-me blurs with the old one. _Were my cheekbones shaped like that before? Was my forehead longer?_ Sudden fear surges in my stomach. _What if I can’t remember? I can’t go back to Thundria looking like this._

“You want to go now?” my father asks, still smiling.

It feels like I just ate a bowl of earthworms, but I swallow down the slime on my tongue and nod. “Alright.” _What else can I say? But…_ “I should really go back home after the party.”

He pouts again, but this time, in the mirror, I think I catch a flash of something a little darker in his eyes. Real anger. _Or maybe Violetta’s putting ideas in my head and now I’m imagining things._ “Fine.”

I sag a little with relief. _I’ll ask him about fixing my face later._

“Now you can change your clothes!” He brightens immediately as he says it. “I instructed them to place some of my clothes in your drawers.”

_They’re way too big,_ I think immediately, but I follow him over to the dresser anyways. With only the barest touch from my father, the drawer glides open, revealing gold and peach-coloured silk, cotton, fabrics that I’ve never seen or felt, all neatly folded and placed on top of each other. _Most were born into it,_ Violetta’s voice echoes in my ears. _How old was the person who arranged these clothes, when they first learned to make such pristine folds?_

“Try them on!” my father urges, and I put all thoughts of Violetta out of my head.

After I drown myself in the sweeping lengths of silky robes, and once my father snaps his fingers to make it shrink down, fitting my proportions, he deems me ready for the party. My dad must’ve gotten ready before he came out to the garden to find me. _He said he was working, didn’t he…? How much of his time does he spend on historian-ing, and how much is dressing up for fancy parties and moving houses and arranging dinners?_

“Now, I will show you how to use a path! It is fun. You will see!” My father claps his hands and then wraps an arm around my shoulders, giving me a big squeeze as he ushers me out of the room. It feels less comforting, this time. I look over my shoulder, catching a last look at the new face in the mirror.

_He didn’t change_ his _face,_ I can’t help noticing as we walk down the stairs. I peer up at his strong jaw, the eyes that are now identical to mine, and wonder if ‘It is expected to change sometimes!’ was code for ‘I don’t want to bring you to a party when you look like a human.’ Shame squirms in my stomach, even when there are like a billion more important things to be worrying about. _Am I not enough in this world?_ Then I remember where we’re going. _I’m going to use a soulpath._ I chew on my lip again, finding it fuller.

“Is it dangerous?” I ask.

My father laughs. “No! No danger in a path.”

_Well, that’s not true._ I think of Cindra, then force my brain away. I don’t want him to know everything about her, not now.

I try not to look at any of the god-toys that we pass as my father escorts me out to the cobblestone path in front of the house, this time because I’m scared I’ll see Zem or Violetta and not be able to control my reaction. And then, altogether too quickly, we’re outside in the setting sunlight. _Oh no, it’s almost dark. How am I going to get back to Thundria in the night? We’re all the way over by the silverpeaks!_

I look at my dad, but he’s already stepping away from my side and joining the rest of his family at the edge of the soulpath. His partner looks over at me and wrinkles her nose. The same one as me, now. _Because now I look like I could be their full-god son. Like Mom didn’t even exist._ Then she steps back and vanishes.

“Clowd, come!” my father commands as another god vanishes. _One of my cousins?_ My father hasn’t bothered introducing me yet. I step hesitantly over to the edge of the glassy soulpath.

I’ve never seen the start of a soulpath before, but I’m guessing this is one of them. It’s a big circle, a perfect glassy platform embedded in the earth, and off from the far side, a soulpath stretches into the distance, cutting over farmland and disappearing into the trees beyond.

“It is very easy,” my father promises as another of his family disappears. “Just stand and let the river carry you.”

I look down at the gleaming surface, lit by the reddish sun. And then up at how far the soulpath extends. _Will I be able to see where I’m going? What if I hit something?_

“Now go! We cannot be late,” he teases, so at odds with the horror building in my chest.

But he’s almost blocking my way, now, bracketing me between him and the other gods. Another steps onto the path and vanishes. _It looks so easy, but…_

I take a slow, shaking breath, and then step onto the surface. The last thing I hear is the thunk of my boot against the glass, before all of my senses start to go ballistic.

It feels like I’ve stepped into a windstorm. My body is immediately thrown forward, leaving my breath behind, and my eyes stream as I try to right myself, stumbling over the path as I’m thrust into the distance. Something’s wrong, I can feel it—I’m off-balance, or I’m angled wrong, or—

I try to take a breath, but the air is blistering, and I reach out, arms wind-milling, trying to find my footing. The ground beneath my feet can’t possibly be flat, because nausea roils in my stomach as I stumble, reaching out, and—

I’m flung from the path, the air flaying me as I hurtle through it, then I slam into something very hard and not moving. I crumple to the ground, curling in on myself and gasping for air. I think I can feel my bones throbbing with pain as they reckon with the abrupt loss of momentum.

Once I can see and breathe again, head still pounding with pain, I flex my hands, then my arms, then push myself up to a sitting position. The soulpath gleams a few metres away, and I don’t think I got thrown nearly as far as it felt. I take another deep breath, feeling my heart thud back to a semi-normal speed, and then twist around to see that the hard, unmoving thing that brought me to a painful halt was in fact, a tree.

 _Shit._ I sag, panting, and lean myself against the tree as my brain switches itself out of panic mode. _Well, I’m never, ever, ever doing that shit again._

I look up, seeing trees crowding out the dusk sky. _A forest? How far did I go?_ I try to swallow, but my tongue feels like it’s covered in sand and I think the tang is blood. _Blessed Starlaxi._ It pops into my head without thinking. _Well, they definitely aren’t looking out for me if they’re gonna put me through that._ I look up at the sky, the two or three stars that have already appeared, and shake my head.

“Clowd? Clowd!”

My father. Relief swamps me, because even if it’s him and even if everything Violetta said is true, at least I’m not alone anymore.

“Dad!” I call, voice ragged.

“Clowd!” He appears in the trees, his delicate beauty and finery so out of place in a forest like this. Then he runs over to me and gathers his arms under my shoulders and hauls me to my feet. I crumple against him, half-hugging and half-trying-not-to-fall-over. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” My voice shakes, but I don’t care. “I just… it was so loud and I couldn’t stay upright, and then I fell and…” I break off in a hiccuping sob.

He looks over at the soulpath. “You should try again.”

“What?! No! No, I can’t,” I insist, pulling away and feeling one of my knees almost buckle under me.

“We’ll be late.” There’s a bit of steel in his voice. For a moment, I can only really see his outline, framed in the twilight. His height, his wide shoulders—he lays a hand on my shoulder. “You should try, at least.”

“No,” I repeat, but I don’t know what I’m going to do if he pushes it—we’re in the middle of nowhere. _What else_ can _I do?_

He looks at me again for a long moment, the tension between us stretching to the point of snapping. Then finally, he says, “Alright. It is not far, we can walk.”

A relieved breath hisses out of me, and I quickly fall in step with him when he starts back off into the forest, the direction he came to find me. _He listened,_ I try to tell myself. Still, my stupid brain is already spinning out an imaginary scenario where Fiyr was the one to find me, instead. _He’d ask if I was okay because he always freaks out when I get hurt. And he’d insist that we don’t go, and that he takes me back to the castle, and he wouldn’t have changed my whole stupid face without asking first._ But even as I try to put it out of my head, as we walk through the forest along the soulpath, I still wish it was Fiyr next to me.

Even as the trees ebb and we reach the estate of the hosts, I keep thinking, _Fiyr’s probably so worried. And Cindra, and especially Faern are probably scared too._ Fiyr, at least, knows where I am. I flush with shame, thinking of how I reacted when he revealed he’d followed me. _Because he was freaking spying on me! But now he knows that I’m with my dad. What if he thinks I’m not coming back because I decided to stay?_

“Come on in, and say hello to everyone,” my dad suggests. _Orders_ , I guess. _Because I don’t have any power here, and he’s the only one I can talk to if something’s gone wrong._

“Yeah, okay.” My voice is quiet, but my father either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. I follow him up the path, into the house, and stare at the god-toys that take my father’s over-clothes, then withdraw with practiced anonymity. More questions fill my head. _Are they Mer-marked? How big is Violetta’s organization? Is she even their leader, or just the one in charge in my father’s manor?_

I hurry after my father as he sweeps down the hall, toward the brightly lit archway. We step out into what’s either a ballroom or a garden. Maybe both. The roof is open, letting in the moonlight, and the room is lit by floating bubbles of light. Some kind of enchantment, but it still shocks me out of my fear for a second. Gods cluster around banquet tables or sway to ethereal music in the centre of the floor, all talking and laughing. I freeze, but my father gives me a little push forward.

“They’re your age,” he whispers to me, pointing out a group of gods standing around a fountain of some kind of ruby-coloured drink. “Make friends!”

Then he merges into the crowd, claiming a plate and complimenting a nearby god with ease, and slips into a conversation.

I take an uncertain step toward the drink-fountain. Immediately the jewel-like eyes of the other young gods swivel to take me in. Well… _this_ me, whoever he is. I swallow and wave.

Words crowd in my mind, a symphony of different voices in a language I don’t speak, and just as I feared, I freeze again. Then I fix my gaze on one of the girls, whose hair gleams like burnished copper. She smiles at me, reaching up to twirl a curl of her hair and draw it like a curtain over half of her face, hiding one of her emerald eyes.

Then I try to send her an image, one of her own beauty. _You’re pretty. Would a god start a conversation that way?_

She smiles brighter, elbowing one of her friends as they incline their chin to her. I can’t tell who’s talking to who, what they’re saying, or what they think of me, but… _I can do this._ My chest tightens and I draw a deep breath, then close the distance and reach for a glass of the ruby-drink.

It’s so cold it hurts my teeth, but it’s a little sweet and a little bitter. My tongue curls, but I try to enjoy it. The copper-haired girl tilts her head at me, and more incomprehensible words appear in my head.

I grimace, then try to send her an image of us communicating with little pictures bouncing back and forth between us like squires passing notes when they’re supposed to be studying.

She tosses her hair back and laughs, then points at my father and gives me an inquisitive look. I nod, smiling shyly. _Are all those titles going to come in handy? Is she impressed that he’s my dad?_

Then another image appears, of me standing with my father’s hand on my shoulder. At my other shoulder is a woman with a question mark for a face. _Who’s your mother._ I think of Mom, then question that judgement. _Maybe I shouldn’t tell her my mother was a human. Should I lie and send her a picture of my father’s partner?_

Then her friend’s eyes widen and she bursts into high, cold laughter.

I stiffen, gaze flicking between them.

The copper-haired girl gets a similar look, then her smile sharpens, turning diamond-hard and dagger-sharp. Another image appears in my head. My father, resting his hand on the head of a stooping, ugly _human_ woman. Revulsion swells in my throat and I reel away from them as the whole group bursts into laughter, all looking at me with a mix of shock and disgusted mirth. My cheeks sear. _How did she realize? Can she see into my head? Of course. Because I have no idea what gods are capable, and I never should have said yes to this party. I should have run back to Thundria the second Violetta told me my father would kill them for trying to get free._ My stomach swoops and for a moment I’m so nauseous I feel like I’m back on the soulpath.

I manage to swallow down the bile, but I backpedal away from the young gods, trying to escape into the crowd of curious glances. _But they’ll all figure it out as soon as I start talking to them. Or communicating with them, because I can’t talk to them, because I don’t speak their language because I’m not one of them!_ My eyes sting, these eyes that aren’t mine, and I stumble blindly through the crowd until I find my dad.

He gasps when he sees me, then quickly turns it into a smile, wraps an arm around my shaking shoulders, and turns to his friends. I can’t even muster a neutral look for the silent introduction that I’m guessing is going on right now, I just screw my eyes shut and try to forget the way the girl’s face changed, the way they laughed. The image of my father and my mom, that stupid, thoughtless, warped idea of what a human is, and how easily they wrote me off.

“Clowd, are you well?” My father’s face, terrifyingly unfamiliar for a moment, twists with concern. “Are they rude? You can stay with me.”

The words fall like stones in a pool, and sudden understanding ripples over me as I stare up at his perfect, handsome face that is an identical copy of mine, now. I don’t know if it’s paranoia or if the veil has finally lifted, but absolute certainty seizes me. _He planned this. Or he hoped it would happen. Now that I feel like I don’t belong, I’m going to come running to him for reassurance._ And I did. Humiliation chokes me for a moment, then it’s replaced with the cold, creeping feeling of being trapped. _Every time I ask to go, there’s always one more thing I have to see. One more thing to experience before I’ll be sure that I don’t want to leave at all._ I don’t breathe for a moment, staring at him until he turns back to his friends. Then I look up at the stars, distant and unfeeling. _There’ll_ always _be one more thing until I stop asking to leave. I should have listened to Violetta, should have begged her to help me and promised her Thundria’s forces, because now I’m a prisoner, too._

So I put on a smile and shake my father’s friends’ hands, and start trying to form a plan of escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m excited! Can you guess the canon identities of these folks?
> 
> ~Akila


	14. Chapter 13 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pressure cooker heats up! We’ve hit the halfway point. I’ve been in a bit of a writing slump for WM unfortunately, so please please read n review and all that good stuff. Enjoy!

Chapter 13 - Samn Schorme

“Alright, thank you,” I say, dismissing Sir Wynnd with a nod.

He shoots one last apologetic look at Fiyr who stands at my shoulder, then leaves the throne room into the dining hall. Pity filling my throat, I turn back to Fiyr.

“I knew they weren’t going to find him,” Fiyr rasps. His voice is thick with the silence he’s held for hours, and his blotchy skin has only gotten alternately paler and more flushed. My heart twists at his state, but I put it aside and pull him close.

“The next one will.”

“They won’t,” he answers in a breath, closing his eyes. His brow furrows and I can almost feel the effort of not breaking down radiating from him. “It’s been four days, Samn. He’s gone.”

My heart drops at the hopelessness in his voice. _He really believes it._ “But…” I shake my head, finally voicing what I’ve been wondering for days. I was wary of wounding him, but… “Maybe he’s happier with the gods.”

His eyes pop open, flashing with disbelief. “How can you say that?” His voice breaks. “That _god_ isn’t his family, I am. Faern is. How could he leave us, without even saying goodbye? Without talking to me…?”  
I rub his back, thinking of my little sister. She’s been equally distraught, and we haven’t told _anyone_ where Fiyr is certain Clowd’s gone, despite the rumours flying. I’m not even sure if the queen knows he’s missing. _If she asks, I’ll tell her,_ I’d decided on the dawn of the second day of Clowd’s disappearance.

“Do you want to tell Faern…?” I ask as gently as I can manage. I don’t know if it would help anything.

Fiyr takes a long, slow breath. “I don’t know… Would she feel better if she knew he left without saying goodbye?”

_No,_ I already know, but I shrug. “I don’t know either. Why don’t you sit down and we’ll eat something?”

He lets me lead him over to the dining hall where most of the court is finishing dinner. Sir Wynnd and his search patrol were out all afternoon, scouring the territory for any sign of him. I know there’s not much use, but doing nothing isn’t an option. I asked him to be sure he covered the outer border, but didn’t dare say anything more specific. Still, I’m sure most of the court is thinking the same thing.

Fiyr slumps onto the bench across from me and buries his face in his hands. A moment later, he says, “I’ve been thinking. Isn’t it… isn’t it kind of awful how the court thinks of god-toys?”

_That’s not exactly a fresh observation._ But I’m the last person allowed to tell him that, so I push the thought away. “Yeah.”

He shakes his head, heels of his palms still pressed into his eyes. “Just… I was six years old when the gods took me from my mother, Natalia. I hardly remember anything about her, and even less of my father. She told me his name was Jakob, and that’s about it.” He lets out a long breath and I wonder if he’s going to cry. “I was _six_ , Samn.” His voice breaks and he takes another careful breath. “I was a little kid. I can’t even… can’t imagine what I’d do if my son was taken from me. But that’s _common_ with god-toys; they’re a resource to the gods, they just get—get moved around. I learned how to do acrobatics, how to work for them and no one ever told me it was wrong.”

I’m quiet, taking it in.

“And then I got to the court, and—and I know you had stuff with your father, and I understand and I forgive you but—Liang, Darriek, what’s their excuse?” He lays his hands on the table, staring at them. “I was the victim. Fuck, I was _twelve_ and all I’d known was how to work. And now I hear them gossiping about Clowd and how—I don’t know, it’s different for him. I don’t know what situation he’s in now, but I know that gods aren’t good for anyone.”

My heart thrums faster at his words, remembering how I treated him, what I thought of him. _He was the victim._ I want to apologize again, but now that we’ve gone to Clowd, it feels wrong.

“I don’t know what his _father_ wants with him, but I don’t trust him at all.” Fiyr makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking, but I can’t believe Clowd would just… just leave like that. I feel like he’s in trouble.”

_Whether or not he thinks he joined them willingly, when it comes to the gods, I think there’s definitely trouble._ Despite knowing that if Clowd really is in trouble, saving him would be the right choice, I can’t help thinking of the kingdom, as well. What I’ve begun to think of as my captain voice pipes up: _Meddling with the gods might bring violence down on the court. Is it fair to ask them to get mixed up when Clowd was the one who got himself into the situation?_ I squeeze a fist, cursing myself for the thought. _No, he’s not the one who got himself into the situation. He’s a kid, he doesn’t know any better. It’s that god’s fault._

“If there’s any way to get him back, I’ll be right behind you,” I promise him. “All the way. Whatever it takes to get him back to safety.” _If he wants to come back._ Because while I do believe he’s in danger… _What do we do if he won’t come with us?_

Fiyr just looks sicker. “But how? How can we take on the gods?”

I don’t have an answer for that, and I’m almost grateful when I spot Briatte hovering a few tables away, made uncertain by our somber expressions and tense conversation.

“Briatte! Come over and sit,” I call to her. Relieved, she hurries over.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to—you guys just looked—” she stammers, sliding in next to me.

I look at Fiyr for confirmation, then answer, “No, we were just… It’s alright. How are you?”

I know her answering smile is from the two dogs she managed to summon today. I took her out with Sir Fere and Faern for some life-force training. Sir Fere’s been a big help; even though he’s a plant-summoner, it’s more useful than I am as an elementalist, especially to tell how far along she is. The two muscled tan and black dogs that came nearly to her waist were apparently an indicator that she was nearly at a knight’s level of life-force. “I’m great.”

My own grin is starting to make my teeth dry out, and I feel my gaze sliding to Fiyr. “And… uh, looking forward to your knight’s exams…?”

Briatte’s brows draw together. “Sir Harte… are you alright? I know Clowd’s been missing…”  
Fiyr nods, then turns his gaze away the floor. “Thank you for asking after him.”

I search my squire’s face. _I didn’t realize that this must be hard on her, too. They were… kind of friends, weren’t they? Even if they weren’t, though, it’d be pretty upsetting if someone you grew up with just… went missing like that._ “We’re looking for him.”

“Yeah.” Briatte still looks troubled. “And you… you really don’t know what happened? Some people were saying that maybe he… that maybe…” She looks at Fiyr and bites her lip. “I mean, you’ve probably heard.”

I haven’t, not directly at least. People seem to be inexplicably hesitant to gossip about my nephew in front of me, but I know the rumours are still getting around. “Yes. But Briatte, we’re doing everything we can.”

Briatte keeps nibbling on her lip, then gives me a worried look. “You’ll find him, right? He’s not… I mean, he’ll be okay.” Then she nods like she’s convincing herself. “Okay. Um, I think I hear my brother…”

And then with questionable grace, she untangles herself from the bench and leaves the dining hall quickly to attend to her brother’s imaginary summons. I snort at her, but something about her innocent concern leaves a pit in my stomach. _Am I doing everything I can? Should I be out there, by the gods’ wall?_ I look at Fiyr, so pale and scared. _Should I be putting him on the search patrols? What would he do if he saw Clowd with one of the gods…?_ Frustration roils in that place of doubt. _We just don’t know! We don’t know how Clowd ended up there, or what he’s thinking, or what he wants. We don’t know what his father is planning, and we don’t know what to do about it._

What I _do_ know is that I haven’t told the queen. That, more than anything, has made me uneasy. I was almost adjusting to keeping Cindra’s care of the Shodawes knights secret, but now this…? _The queen didn’t ask,_ I remind myself, trying to bring back my certainty from days ago that she shouldn’t know that Clowd might have left intentionally. _But you’re the captain. You’re not supposed to test her until she_ proves _herself, you’re supposed to support her and lead._

“What are you thinking about?” Fiyr asks, tearing his eyes away from the ground.

“I…” I swallow and pick honesty. “I feel like I should tell the queen about Clowd. Even though…” _I’ll still be organizing the search patrols, I’ll still be the one who knows that Clowd’s gone to his father before, I’ll still be the one that Fiyr hides his face in when he feels the loss of his nephew most strongly…_ “Even if it won’t help. I think I should tell her.”

Fiyr nods slowly. “Yes. Yeah, I think you should.”

I hesitate for a moment, searching his face, trying to guess whether he thought it was wrong of me to keep it from her all along. He just looks tired. “Alright.”

He nods again, and I take his hand as I stand, then let it go with a little squeeze. _This is the right thing to do. The queen can’t make it worse, anyway._ What a grim thought. I crack my knuckles as I make the walk to her chambers.

“Lady Schorme.” Queen Bluelianna is sitting at her desk, everything in its place. A single book is open in front of her; I recognize its tattered pages and worn leather binding. _Why is she looking at the Book of Prophecies?_

I bow and seat myself across from her. Then I raise my gaze to study her. There’s nothing immediately off about her; she’s wearing her special, ice-blue uniform, a cloak swept over the chair behind her as if she might walk out at any moment. Her desk is organized, an inkpot and quill poised to allow her to note down a reminder for a coming supply run or a notice to a nearby village. She’s not usually the one handling that sort of thing anymore, though.

The queen herself is still and placid as a lake’s waters. She inclines her head to me when I don’t speak and continue to search her face. Wrinkles ebb like cracked glass from the edge of her eyes, though the latter have retained their sharp focus. Her mouth purses as I retain my silence.

“Yes? What is it?” she prompts.

_How will she take this?_ Visions of her ramping up search patrols, of spreading the news to every corner of the court, or conversely stepping back and letting me continue to control the search for him spread out in front of me. _You decided. Fiyr agreed._ I hook my thumbs together and press, grounding myself, then reply, “Your Majesty, Clowd is missing.”

“I see,” she says, lowering her eyes to the Book of Prophecies. Then she turns her stare back up to me. “Where is he?”

The pointed question is somehow a comfort. Her shrewd reading of me reminds me of the queen that trained me. “We believe he’s left to live with his father, the god.”

The queen’s gray brows flicker up. “I see,” she repeats.

“But he’s surely in danger,” I continue when she doesn’t seem likely to issue a decree on that alone. “He’s a child, Your Majesty, and doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.”

Queen Bluelianna tilts her head. “You believe in his power to choose, or not? The Starlaxi guided him, or they didn’t? His actions, or theirs?”

_What…?_ I find myself looking anywhere but her penetrating stare, like I think the stacks of paper arranged next to her might have the answers to those strange questions.

“What does his father want with him?” Then that stare is gone, and she’s returned to looking down at the page she’s opened on the book.

“We don’t know.”

“If he has gone of his own volition, and the gods wish to keep him, then nothing but an act of the Starlaxi could change it.” Her eyes gleam as she looks back up at me, like we’re in on a joke. “Perhaps this is their will.”

“That’s impossible,” I burst out, feeling heat rise in my cheeks at my own impudence, mixed with anger riled by her half-answers and seeming indifference. “And what of Sir Harte? Clowd was like a son to him.”

The queen gives me a long look, then shakes her head. “We all must adjust to loss. The gods are not to be trifled with, and this is the path the Starlaxi has chosen for Clowd. There is nothing to be done.”

I’m on my feet in an instant, emotions I can hardly put into words bottling themselves in my throat, jostling to unleash themselves on her. _You have to care! You have to care about your court! You can’t do this to Fiyr! You can’t do this to_ me _! Where is the compassionate, intelligent, courageous woman I looked up to?!_ The unfairness and the rage provoked by it choke me. _Why are you doing this?_ I tremble, staring at her and gritting my teeth to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret, then bow as deeply as I can. My body feels like a bow drawn to breaking.

“Very well,” I say when I’ve swallowed it all back down. She looks on serenely, like she can’t see the storm raging inside me. “Your Majesty.”

…

I wake halfway through the next night when Fiyr untangles his arms from mine and leaves our bed. In a groggy haze of half-waking, I push myself up to the headboard and lean against the wood. It’s bracingly cold against my neck.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Fiyr murmurs from our window, framed in moonlight. It must be only a little past midnight; the treetops outside are a sea of darkness.

“It’s alright,” I answer in the same soft voice. My sleep came restlessly enough, anyway; I didn’t tell Fiyr _exactly_ what the queen said, just explained that she wasn’t going to take over organizing the search for me. I think he could guess there was more to it, but we’ve gotten good at ignoring that sort of thing.

He looks out the window, washed in silver, then turns back to me. As my eyes adjust, I see that his face is lined with worry.

“What is it…?”

He sits on the edge of our bed, tangling a hand in his hair. “I dreamed of your father again.”

I’m quiet for a moment. “What did he say?”  
“He said…” Fiyr smiles. “Says I should’ve told you he was in my dreams. And tell you that he’s proud of you, and that he loves you and Lady Faise, and he would tell you to be strong but he knows just how strong you are.”

My eyes sting and I try to play off the sudden feeling in my chest with a snort. “That’s more than I ever remember of my dreams.”

Fiyr huffs a laugh as well. “Yeah. He also told me to… um… kwee-dado con enemy key paressay door-meer.”

I stare. “Did my father forget how to speak the common tongue when he died?”

His lips twist into a wry look. “No, no, he communicates fine, but when he wants to give me one of those little prophecies, he does it in Old Thundrian.”

_That’s Old Thundrian!?_ His pronunciation is atrocious and my brain feels too stretched out and hollow to try to figure it out. But I’m sure he won’t remember it better tomorrow, so I squint at him and ask, “Run… that by me again?”

“Kwee-dado, con el enemy, go key paressay door-meer,” he repeats.

_Cuidado… con el enemy-go, or probably enemigo but his translation saves time, key… que parece dormir._ I press my fingers to my forehead like I can draw it out of my head if I reach in there. _C’mon, Briatte and I were just studying this. The enemy, the appearance of sleep… and ‘beware.’ Beware the enemy that appears to sleep._

“Beware the enemy that appears to sleep,” he echoes faintly when I voice it.

Horror pounds out a dull rhythm in my chest. _No. It can’t be._

“I think I know what it means,” he adds.

I hold my breath.

“The Shodawes knights.”

“What…?”  
Fiyr climbs back under the comforter with me and says quietly, “Shodawa hasn’t really attacked us since they teamed up with Wynnd. After Braukkin’s reign, and Naitienne’s attempt to get us to kill him afterward, and… just, all the trouble Shodawa’s caused… and then Cindra taking care of them when they turned up on our door. I’m sure they’re up to something.”

“So many of them are sick, though,” I point out. “What damage are they going to do in their current state?”

Fiyr shakes his head. “I don’t know. But if Sir Faer is dead, and Med Naos isn’t treating the king anymore and thinks he’s going to die soon too, who will take the throne?”

“The new captain, I’d imagine.”

“But you heard Lailtle! He hasn’t named a successor.” Fiyr bunches the blankets up to his chin, looking awfully young.

I’ve been trying to put that out of my head. I don’t even want to try to imagine what it would be like to live in a court with such uncertainty—even in the queen’s state, and even knowing I was named captain after midnight, at least our line of succession is clear. I even have my captain’s captain picked out. _Even if Sir Strommer would have been a better choice in the first place, nobody can contest my right to the crown in the event that… the queen loses her last Blessing._

“In a much older age…” I hesitate. I overheard Lady Fuor and Sir Wynnd at dinner last night, speculating on Shodawes’s future, and of what might happen to them if both Naitienne and Sir Faer were rendered incapable of leadership. “It used to be the monarch’s eldest child; we had princes and princesses and all of that sort of fluff you’d find in a novel.”

Something passes across Fiyr’s face that I can’t guess at the origin of; a smile, sort of sad and nostalgic.

“But Naitienne never United, and I don’t think he admitted fatherhood of any children.” I shrug. “Then I supposed it’d pass to the captain, then the captain’s children.”

Fiyr raises an eyebrow. “And did Sir Faer have kids?”

I tell Fiyr the name I heard Lady Fuor and Sir Wynnd suggest as a possible next monarch. “Lady Feure, his only… only _remaining_ child. Apparently she was named a sort of advisor to King Naitienne even though she’s quite young.” _Maybe she’s dead now._ Shodawa hasn’t given any sort of official declaration of the deceased, yet. The enigmatic Lady Feure could be among them.

“Feure’s derived from…” His brow crinkles. “Fur?”

“Fire, I think.”

Fiyr huffs a laugh. “She sounds like a peach.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard people with names derived from ‘fire’ are real dickheads to try to reason with.” I sneak an elbow over to his side of the bed and catch him in the ribs.

“So witty, so early,” Fiyr answers, squirming away.

I’m relieved to hear him sound a little less anxious. “You really think my dad was talking about Shodawa?”

“Maybe.” He pauses. “I’m not certain of anything, but I have a feeling. Why?”

“No reason.” It’s out before I consider admitting the truth. I trust him, it’s not that, I just… want to spare as many people from the other possibility as long as possible. _As if saying it out loud would speak it into existence? Don’t be ridiculous, Samn,_ I chide myself. Still, the thought drops to depths of my spirit and stays there, weighing heavily. “Then what?”

Fiyr quiets, then rolls over and curls into my chest. His words drift over my skin. “I think Cindra shouldn’t treat the Shodawes knights. She said they were improving already, didn’t she? If they’re not in danger anymore…”

I can feel his heartbeat against mine. I breathe out, almost into his hair, and think of Lailtle and Weith’s faces when we brought them back to the trace-line. How they looked when we found them in the motel in Sun Rocks. _They were better, weren’t they? Not quite as deathly pale. Their throats were less disturbingly off-colour. Their voices weren’t as ragged and choked up. Surely Cindra has helped them as much as she can._

“What are you thinking?” Fiyr whispers.

“I think you’re right,” I say, finally. _I can trust him. If he says he got the feeling that the enemy that sleeps is Shodawa, I trust him. And I hope he’s right._ “They have to stand on their own, away from our court.”

I feel his weight more solidly as tension eases from his body. Relief washes over me at this concord. _I really, really hope he’s right._ Because if he isn’t, and I am… Even as Fiyr drifts back off to sleep, secure in my arms, I find myself restless again. Every shadow seems to conceal a man with one burning eye, quiet as sleep, promising everyone that he’s well and truly gone with a choking, mortal lie. _But not trusting him was how I might’ve helped save Ravne’s life. Not trusting him is why the queen is shattered, but not dead._ Almost everything, I think, can be traced back to my one choice to suspect him when no one believed it. But I want so, so badly to lay all the disruption he created to rest and go about as if he really is gone.

 _Dad, if the warning really was for me…_ Something burns in my chest—maybe anger, maybe heartache—as I stare up at the starry sky just outside our window. _I hear you. I’ll be careful and I promise I won’t act rashly, but your murderer isn’t dead and I haven’t forgotten it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek I think this is a good one but let me know haha.
> 
> ~Akila


	15. Chapter 14 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo hallo! I am back with another pre-written chapter. I have continued to ignore Chapter 23 the Cursed One that apparently refuses to let me write it. Read and review as always! Enjoy!

Chapter 14 - Samn Schorme

“Cindra? Got a minute?” I rap my knuckles gently against the doorframe into hers and Lady Fennen’s living quarters.

“Yeah?”

I pull aside the curtain that sections it off from the rest of the healer’s wing and find Cindra sitting cross-legged on the thick blue quilt that covers her bed. She has a large notebook bound in leather, with stray papers slipped between the pages at random, and pauses her scribbling as I step into her space.

“I just wanted to check in with you to ask if you’ve sent away the Shodawes knights,” I say, lowering my voice. She hasn’t signalled for me to sit, so I hover awkwardly at the foot of the bed. Her space is quite austere, almost like a squire’s nook—bed, nightstand, small mirror and washing bucket—save for the rug I stand on and the desk pushed up against one corner.

Cindra closes the notebook deliberately and looks up at me. “I said I would do it yesterday, and I did.”

Her voice isn’t hostile or anything, but there’s a coolness to it I’ve rarely heard from her. It’d make me a little short in return, but my faint guilt keeps me patient. I nod.

“Right. Thank you. You… you understand, it’s for Thundria.” I should just go, I know, but I can’t help feeling like I need to explain myself under her unflinching stone-blue stare.

“I know.” Her voice is soft like she’s making an effort to keep her temper down. “I hope they’ll be alright.”

“Me too,” I say, and quickly leave her quarters before I start babbling about what the queen and Lady Fennen would have thought of her treating them at all. _It’s not that I don’t think it’s the right thing to do,_ I think for the thirtieth time. _It’s just that they were already improving a lot and after Fiyr’s dream… Am I dooming men to death over my husband’s weird dreams?_ Doubt creeps in, and I shove it back out. _They’re not going to die. Cindra helped them away from the brink of death, and just because it’s too dangerous for her to nurse them back to the damn pink of health doesn’t mean they’re going to die, or it’s wrong for them to go back to their territory._

_And what in the Blacklands is going on with Med Naos? Is Cindra really so prodigious that she came up with a cure for something a seasoned healer couldn’t treat?_ The despair in Lailtle’s eyes comes back to me, all too familiar. His words echo. _Med Naos keeps talking about some new beginning for Shodawa, about rising from the ashes._

I look at the door behind the throne as I leave the healer’s wing. _Or are they improving under Cindra’s care because Med Naos isn’t even trying to save them anymore? Has he given up on his court? If Sir Faer’s dead and the king’s not far from joining him, just who is going to be responsible for raising them from the ashes? Whoever Lady Feure is? Lady Fuor and Sir Wynnd made her sound like she was quite young._

The summer solstice isn’t long now— _The weather is certainly heating up_ , I think as the warmth of the air outside the castle’s doors hits me like a tangible thing. We’re only just leaving spring, and the forest is already drying up, like we’re skipping over summer entirely and jumping straight to fall. There’s been no rain in months.

“Samn?” Sir Strommer is just leaving the knight’s stables when I round the side of the castle.

I pause; I sent him out with Briatte this morning, and they must just be returning. I hope he doesn’t ask what I’m doing. “Sir Strommer.”

“I just wanted to speak to you for a moment,” he says, his brows drawing together. I nod, mentally burying all traces of where I’m going deep inside, then step into the shade of the castle. “It’s… Queen Bluelianna seems to be having it especially difficult these days.”

I haven’t noticed, if that’s the case. Her behaviour seems like a blur of lucidity and intelligence, then sleeplessness and erratic habits, then peaceful nihilism. I’ve been trying not to keep up; the court needs me, and nothing I do to help her is working.

“Oh?”

“I’ve just… never seen her like this,” he admits softly. “I’ve been making an effort to be around her more recently, but she seems very… distracted.”

_That’s one word for it._ “She was badly shaken by Sir Cawle’s betrayal.”

Sir Strommer nods, and like the ground shifting beneath my feet, I realize he’s looking to me for reassurance. _How can that be? I’m not in control._ In some ways, maybe I am, but the future feels completely out of my grasp. Then he shakes his head and looks up at the sky. “I was too. We grew up together, you know? My father mentored him, and…” He shakes his head again.

I study him. _I hadn’t considered that._ “Yeah. I’m sorry, it must have been hard.”

His jaw moves under his skin. “He killed your father, Samn. I hope he never shows his face in our territory ever again.”

The silence hangs between us for a moment until his eyes move back to look at me.

“Right, sorry, I’m probably holding you up. Briatte must be wondering where I am.” He smiles. “She adores you, you know that? Thinks you’re a Ser on earth.”

I force an answering smile at that, even as discomfort worms in my stomach. _Idolatry is a dangerous game. But I will never, ever let Briatte down if I can help it._ “Yeah, yeah. Go teach her a thing or two.”

Then he laughs, and it’s like the shadow over the sun has passed. “I’m not going to _beat_ her, Samn.”

“Just go,” I snort at him.

And as he strolls away, I find myself wondering if he’s still thinking about the queen. _Does he get to put her out of his mind and move on with his day?_ The thought is tinged with bitterness. I saddle Dune and waste no time riding her into the patch in the leaves, then straight toward the Rivien trace-line.

Dry leaves crunch beneath Dune’s hooves, dried so much in the sun that they’ve shrivelled up and fallen off the trees. I peer up at the glaring sun overhead, sweat already trickling down my neck as I ride out of the cover of the trees and toward the ravine. Hopefully this won’t take long. _We’re going to be celebrating Berrystar’s Morn completely indoors._ Our Flowerstar’s Day celebration was much more low-key than it’s been in past years. I made an effort, but… bigger fish to fry, and all that.

I come out to the shore of the Rivien sea on the cliff’s edge. The cool, salty breeze that gusts off the water is a welcome relief from the swelter. As I shield my eyes against the sun, peering down toward the village of the Sun Rocks, though, a different kind of chill seizes me.

There’s a shadow on Rivier’s shores.

Setting a trembling hand on the pommel of _Sandstorm_ , my life-force already tingling in my fingertips, I guide Dune to where the cliff slopes down to meet the shore and keep my gaze trained on the figures on the pebbles. A moment of concentration reveals the truth in the Trace; iron-cinnmon and campfire smoke. My heart sinks, but at least my pulse slows.

_Oh, Fiyr…_ Neither Graie nor Fiyr notices me as I close the distance between myself and them. Blitz is grazing on the small green shoots that poke up between the rocky ground, and Graie has docked a small rowboat.

Finally, the scrape of the rocks under Dune’s hooves alerts them and Fiyr whirls around, guilt filling his eyes.

I say nothing, just hop off of Dune and look Graie up and down. I’m always a little unsettled when I see Rivien-Graie. So familiar, but so different; his gray hair has grown out considerably and he’s keeping it in a feathery braid over one shoulder. His Thundrian-brown skin has darkened to a rich oak-brown from the sun, no trees to conceal him from it, and of course, he’s clothed in the Rivien uniform; a white undershirt pushed up to his elbows, a navy blue vest edged with gleaming copper buttons, and tied off with a paler blue sash. He sizes me up warily, a look in his eye that I’ve never seen from him before. The creases around the edges of his eyes and the shadows in their hazel depths are new as well.

“Samn.” His voice is quieter.

I pause for a moment. Fiyr looks nervous, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. _But I went with him that day to see if Graie would be there… I don’t think he’s doing anything wrong._

_Except meeting a knight from an enemy kingdom and updating him on the state of our court,_ my captain voice pipes up helpfully.

“Graie,” I say.

Graie turns back to Fiyr. “I should go. I hope you find him, and I’ll see you at the summer solstice.”

“Yeah,” Fiyr says, enfolding him in a tight embrace. They hold onto each other long enough that I start to feel awkward, standing there watching them hug. Finally, Graie pulls away and Fiyr mumbles, “Tell Faeth and Remy I say hi.”

“They’re so excited to meet you,” Graie half-laughs as he gets back into the boat. “So many stories about Uncle Fiyr.”

“Hope I live up to them,” Fiyr answers with a smile, helping Graie push off. “Safe trip.”

“You too. Bye, Samn.”

“Goodbye.” I watch as he rows himself out onto the water, then turn back to Fiyr when I judge him as out of earshot. “How’s Graie doing?”

Fiyr gives me that same nervous look like it might be a trick question. “He’s… he’s good. Apparently he’s replaced me with the woman who nursed Faeth—Faetherra and Storrem, Lady Pelle, she’s a close friend, and…” He seems to realize he’s rambling and gulps. “I told him about Clowd’s disappearance.”

“I know. He said ‘I hope you find him,’” I say when Fiyr’s eyes widen. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I… I was just riding by and figured I’d come down.”

“Right.”

I don’t like this fizzing tension that’s found its way between us, but I’m not entirely sure why Fiyr’s so skittish. “I’m not angry you’re meeting him.”

“No?”

“No. I understand,” I say, even as my captain voice starts going off about not giving away court secrets. “I… you didn’t tell him anything that could help Rivier, though, right?”

Fiyr’s arms cross in front of his chest. “No. I told him about Lady Flourer’s children, Clowd’s disappearance, and…” He swallows. “And how the queen’s doing.”

_So the answer is actually yes,_ my captain voice snarks. I push it away and repeat, “I understand.”

“I’m glad,” Fiyr replies, but there’s still a tilt to his brows that makes me wonder if he entirely trusts me when I say I’m not mad about it. “Why are you out alone? I mean—not that you shouldn’t be—where are you going?”

This time I’m the one hesitating. “I… I know you trust Cindra, and I do too, but… I was just going to check that the Shodawes knights have really left.”  
“Ah.”

I nod.

“I can tag along,” Fiyr offers, then runs a hand through his sun-lightened hair sheepishly. “I always kill an hour before coming back when I see Graie. I mean, I don’t… we hardly see each other more than once a month, it’s not an all-the-time thing, but… just to make sure my trace doesn’t have any of his on it.”

“Right. Yeah, let’s go,” I agree, mounting Dune again. As we set off toward Sun Rocks, I keep glancing at Fiyr. “I’m really not mad.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know, I’m just… I don’t know. I won’t bring up the queen with him.”

“Okay.” Then quietly, I add, “It must be really hard.”

Fiyr’s silent for a moment, and when I look at him, his eyes are misty. “Yeah.”

…

Clowd is still missing. It’s now been a week since the elders saw him leave their common room. Since then, there’s been no sign of him.

Fiyr has thrown himself back into work, out every day on a supply run, or stationed on guard outside Thermo to deal with the orc-situation, or patrolling the trace-line. Today, he’s coming out with Briatte and me for a little hunting by the solstice pavilion. I’m not sure what’s changed in him, but he seems unwilling to dwell on Clowd’s disappearance; not forgetting him either, though. As if he’s certain Clowd will be back soon.

We ride in near-silence, preserving our voices and waterskins. The oppressive heat means the sooner we’ve made our kills and left, the sooner we can wash pump water down our sweaty backs and over our flushed faces. I’m already daydreaming of cold water on my cheeks when we arrive in the hunting spot I marked out on a map this morning.

“Fiyr and I will hunt as well,” I tell Briatte. “But we’ll be nearby if you need anything.”

Briatte nods, already dismounting Sunny. A moment later, I hear bark as a lean greyhound bounds out of the foliage. It shoves its dappled head up to get a pet from Briatte, and then she unslings her bow and sets off into the trees with Sunny and the greyhound in tow.

“A dog?” Fiyr cocks his head as they disappear.

“Mm. She uses it to distract her quarry while hunting.” I can’t help grinning at Fiyr’s impressed look. _Yes, my squire is so accomplished._ “Creative, eh?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I never would have come up with something like that.”

“You use your fire sometimes, don’t you?”

Fiyr makes a face. “I guess so. I thought summoning would be less useful though, unless you could just… summon game.”

“Hmmm. That would take a lot of power though, wouldn’t it? To make it nutritious and stop it from fading,” I point out. As far as I can gather, there’s a big gulf between summoning an animal temporarily and actually _creating_ a new animal. None of Briatte’s summons last longer than a half hour, whereas my mom’s horses are still living out their horse lives as if they’d been born to their mothers same as any other natural creature. I’m assuming that the moment Briatte gets her knight ring and gains the strength to do it, she’ll fill the entire castle with lapdogs.

Fiyr shrugs and takes a long drink from his waterskin, then wipes his mouth. “Right. Let’s get going.”  
I open my mouth to agree, then leave my jaw hanging as a man rounds the corner out of the trees and rides down the path toward us. For a moment, I think it’s a villager, but his skin is too dark and his eyes—

“Ravne,” I breathe.

“What?!” Fiyr whips around in time to see the man ride right up to us and swing himself off his horse.

I run forward and grab him in a hug before I can even think of why he might be here. His arms wrap around me almost instinctively, solid and strong in a new way. One of my hands gets tangled in his long black hair.

“I can’t believe it,” I say faintly, pulling back and keeping my hands on his shoulders. He’s _tall_ , taller than me, and though he’s still lean, he’s built a great deal of muscle. He smiles.

“It’s good to see you, Samn,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets. Then he waves at Fiyr. “It’s good to see both of you.”

I shake my head. _It’s been… what, twelve years?_ “I can’t believe it’s really you,” I repeat dumbly.

Ravne cracks another grin, with new ease and warmth, and the old shy tilt of his chin. “S’been too long.”

“How’s Barrleigh?” Fiyr asks, coming forward to squeeze the guts out of Ravne as well. It’s such a bizarre sight; adult Fiyr, stranger Ravne, and… me.

“He’s good. We’re good.” Ravne pats his back, then pulls away again. I step back and look him up and down. He’s got a new tan as well, and his hair, pulled back into a long ponytail, gleams like black seed oil in the sunlight. If I felt strange seeing Graie as a Rivien, Ravne grown up is even more uncanny. The general shape of his face is familiar, of course, but… some of the fat has been stripped off his jaw, there’s a nick in one of his eyebrows, and his blue eyes are less wide and nervous and more… direct, I think.

_Ten years,_ I think. _Longer, even._ I’m a little too speechless to start grilling Ravne on why he’s here, so Fiyr does it for me. _Does he want to come back? What is the court going to say? What will Duss say? What will the queen say?_

“What brings you to Thundria?”

“Sir Cawle’s gone,” I burst out.

Ravne nods. “I know. I’m…” A little of his old uncertainty returns as he looks at me, brows drawing together. “I’m not coming back. The farm’s my home now, and I don’t… Everyone at court still thinks I’m dead. I don’t really want to come back to life.”  
I’ve pretty much guessed as much, just based on how… not eager to get back to the castle he is. _I wonder if anyone would even recognize him._ Briatte, now sixteen, would’ve only been eight or nine when he disappeared.

“It’s good to see you anyway,” I say.

“Congratulations, by the way.” Ravne smiles again, gesturing first at my scarlet tunic, then at the space between Fiyr and I. What little there is of it.

“Thank you.” As nice as it is to catch up, there’s a shadow in Ravne’s expression that makes me think he didn’t just happen upon us with the intent of chatting about what we’ve gotten up to for the past _ten years_. Just thinking about it is… dizzying. “But really, why are you here now? If not to come back…”

Ravne cocks his head. “Well, I wanted to see you guys again, I guess. But I never really found a good reason to make such a long journey, and…” He waves his hand to illustrate the passage of time. “Then, the other day I found something strange that I thought you would want to know about.”

“Oh?” I try to keep my tone as level as I can, even though I know Fiyr’s already getting his hopes up. His face is so open, so nakedly hopeful that something in my chest aches.

“Yeah…” Ravne’s brow furrows like even now he can hardly believe what he found. He looks up at the white sun’s glare overhead and shakes his head. “This is going to sound a bit… improbable.”

“You’d be surprised what’s become probable to us, now,” I answer.

Ravne nods, his head continuing to bob a little even after he’s finished the movement, then looks me in the eye. “The manors near our farm…” He hesitates, working his jaw. “I found a familiar trace. And there’s always this one god who feels like you, with white hair and… He carries Thundrian trace. I don’t know how...”

He pauses when he sees Fiyr’s expression.

I close my eyes and count to three, taking a steadying breath. _If they’re by the silverpeaks after seven days… We need to go get him as soon as possible before they put him somewhere else._ Then I look up at the blue sky, all traces of clouds long ago seared away by the heat of the sun. _Blessed Starlaxi, have you sent us a stroke of luck to save him?_ I look at Fiyr, who has turned to me with wide eyes, then at Ravne, whose dark brow is still cocked questioningly, and… my captain voice is silent. Then I think, _Well, no time to waste._

I cup my hands around my mouth.

“Briatte? Small change of plans.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE GO LADS. Gosh this part of WM has just been so so much fun to write and I hope everyone’s gettin invested.
> 
> ~Akila


	16. Chapter 15 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew have four years made me better at writing action let’s find outttttt I finally finished chapter 23 as well but I am certainly not writing them quickly so uh read and review as always

Chapter 15 - Clowd

“Good morning, my dear,” I whisper to myself. “Good evening, my dear. As long as I’m near, there’s nothing to fear.”

The sheet of music is still a faint rectangular outline in my pocket, tucked around Layli’s note, but when I get a moment away from my father, I’ve started mumbling it under my breath to myself. Call me crazy—and whoever hears me whispering a lullaby alone is definitely going to—but it’s soothing.

There’s not much else to do, besides avoid my father and make up excuses for why I don’t want to attend to whatever new party or banquet or gala it is he wants me to be present for. He’s gotten a lot more lenient since I stopped asking to go back to Thundria. I don’t know how long that’s gonna last.

I haven’t spoken to Violetta since that day in the cellar, either. Layli still follows my father’s partner everywhere, but no matter how hard I try to make Meaningful Eye Contact with her, she hasn’t slipped me anymore notes or pulled me into dark rooms to explain how to get away.

Every day that passes feels like one step further from Thundria, even though we’ve so far stayed in my father’s summer land. After the first couple of days, I stopped worrying about how angry Fiyr would be and just started missing him. He might be annoying, but he’s the closest thing I have to real family, because I’m starting to get the idea that your family’s the people who take care of you, not… whatever my father’s plan is. _Heir, dejka, son, kin._ What even _am_ I to him? Someone to parade out at parties where the other gods will inevitably realize that I’m not one of them and shun me?

I kick my legs on the high marble bench that I’m sitting on in the garden and look up at the sun. It’s so hot already, and even though I know it was just becoming summer when I left, and I’ve counted seven sunrises since then, it feels like it’s already so late in summer that… I don’t know. So late that I’ve left the human time and seasons and ended up in this horrible god world.

“In sunshine, my darling,” I mouth, wishing I had paid better attention in the nursery with Lady Tiall. Maybe then I could actually sing the melody. “In snowfall, my darling.”

I don’t know how I’m going to get out. I can’t let myself think that I’m _not_ going to get out, because being stuck in a house full of gods that hate me and one that wants me to be something that I’m not _forever_ is… too life-ruining to even contemplate. _Fiyr would try to come save me, I know he would. He’s probably turning Thundria upside down now, looking for me. But I’m not there…_

“I’ll hold you close. I’ll sing to you.”

I wonder if Fiyr and Mom’s mother sang to them. I wonder how old they were when they were taken away from her. I wonder how old Layli was.

“La, la, la,” I say, feeling ridiculous. _Sitting in a garden, saying the words to a song I don’t know…_ I should be out training with Faern, or cooking with Sewif, or riding with Briatte. It’s like the old Clowd is getting taken from me, day by day, the longer I stay here. _At least I have my face back._

Once I got back from that horrible party with the young gods that laughed at me, with the realization that my father wasn’t going to let me leave burning in my head, the first thing I did was plant my hand against the mirror in my room and force away the changes. Undoing it required less concentration that doing it, which was good because I was a blubbering mess. I’m sure my father noticed the changes the next morning at breakfast, but he didn’t push me to go back. _Not yet, at least. What else of myself will be gone if I stay another day?_

“La, la, la.”

“Clowd?”

I freeze, my legs stopping mid-swing, and then scramble off the bench and turn around. My father is standing on the garden path, a twinkle of laughter in his eyes like nothing’s wrong at all. I wonder if he knows that I hate this place.

“Come back inside, your skin will be hurt,” he says, waving his hand and already moving back toward the house before I nod.

Sometimes, I think that if I just do everything he says, he’ll be so satisfied that he won’t mind if I never ever go to any of those parties or music lessons or whatever else gods fill their days with. He hasn’t kicked up that much of a fuss yet. I don’t know what he would be like if he got angry at me, though.

I walk down the path, still thinking my way through the lullaby. _La, la, la. Close both your eyes, dream of blue skies._ It feels like a tiny bit of safe rebellion, to ‘sing’ it. _I’m half-god, and half-god-toy. That half matters, no matter what my father says,_ I think, clenching my fists like I’m physically holding onto my identity. Just as the shadow of the house falls across my face, I feel an odd prickling on my neck.

_La, la, la. La, la, la. Dream of a world far beyond..._

I turn around and my heart skips a beat.

Fiyr and Samn are standing at the edge of the garden. Behind them is a tall man with long black hair and Briatte, holding on to her bow. _What?! How are they…_

I whip around to make sure my dad won’t be able to see them. He’s lingering in the entry hall in front of me, and I know that if I move he’s going to see them. I stand still, waiting to see if he’ll go in ahead of me. _How do I tell Fiyr I see them?_

“Clowd?” My father’s brow furrows and he steps toward me.

_No, no, no, no, don’t do that._ “Let’s go inside,” I say, feeling my voice come out high and nervous. I step forward, but my father can clearly tell something’s wrong. He peers over my shoulder. Short of reaching up and trying to cover his eyes, all I can do is stand, an ice-cold feeling swirling in my belly, and wait to see if he spots them.

“Clowd, go indoors,” he says quietly, still looking at something past me in the garden.

The icy feeling spreads to my spine, and even as my hands start to shake I say, “Wait, just wait a second—”

He moves past me in one stride, stepping back out into the sunlight. _Run!_ I try to scream at Fiyr, but my mouth and throat feel stuffed full of cotton, like I’m stuck in a nightmare. _Are they still there?_ Then my limbs come unlocked suddenly and I run past my dad, putting myself between him and my family.

“Wait,” I repeat.

My father’s hardly looking at me, staring over my shoulder at where I’m desperately praying they’re fleeing into the forest.

Then my father raises his hand and the too-sweet smell of god-magic sears my nose.

“No!” I yell and to my surprise, my father pauses and looks at me.

“Clowd, come with us!” Fiyr shouts from somewhere behind me.

_Why aren’t they running?!_ Violetta’s grim prediction comes back to me. I swallow hard and try to speak as calmly as I can when I say, “If you hurt them, I won’t forgive you.”

My father looks at me like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. “Humans? What are these humans, here?”

“They’re my family,” I whisper, then even as worry for Fiyr and the others chokes me and my fear of the looming god in front of me claws up in my throat, I say louder, “They’re my family, and you won’t hurt them.”

He still looks utterly puzzled. Not angry. Yet. At least his hand is wavering in the air, no longer crackling with white magic. “Clowd, go back inside the house.”

I shake my head. “I’m not gonna do that, Dad. They’re going to leave,” I raise my voice to make sure they hear me, “and then we’ll go back inside.”

My father scowls, his perfect face knitting into lines of anger. “They want to take you.”

_They want to save me,_ my brain corrects. “I’m not going to go with them,” I say, and it’s the truth for now. I can’t go with them with my father right there, but they know where I am now. Maybe there’s a chance… “I’m going to stay with you.”

He’s still glowering, eyes slitted like a snake’s. “You are mine. You belong with your kin.”

_You are mine._ Something about it stabs deep inside me. Violetta’s tightly leashed rage as she said _I am a prisoner_ flashes in my head. _I’m not a fucking dog. He can’t just take me, keep me in his house, change my face and force me into his clothes, expect me to be fine with the way he keeps a bunch of human people forced to work_ —My heartbeat hammers in my ears and before I can stop myself, it comes spilling out.

“You’re no kin of mine. You lied to me.” My voice snags on something in my throat, some yet-unacknowledged piece of angry grief that he’s not who I wanted him to be. “You _lied_ to me, you showed me those god-toys and told me they were happy. They’re not, Dad, they’re prisoners.”

An ugly look crosses his flawless face and my stomach whirls. As long as I can keep his rage focused on me though, and give Fiyr and the others time to escape… “They are not our equals, Clowd. It is not of our concern how they feel about their natural place in life.”

_No, they’re not our equals._ Furious tears burn in my eyes. _When I was pitching a fit about doing laundry, Briatte, Thorrin, Faern, even Sewif did their chores and kept their heads up. They practiced their swordwork and they kept the kingdom safe while I was being a baby about doing a little hard work. I wanted to escape Fiyr, because he did the best thing for me even when it didn’t make me feel all fluffy and good, and when I didn’t have it as easy as it could possibly be, I ran away. I wish I was human. I wish I wasn’t such a fucking baby._ My fists curl, and I shove down the rising tide of shame and hate in my chest. _But I’m more human than my father. I listened to Violetta, and the second I get away I’m going to do whatever I can to help them all get away from him._

“You lied to me,” is all I can say. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anything you say.”

_I’m sorry, Mom,_ I think as my father’s body stiffens, his height almost seeming to increase as he draws himself up. _I forgot so fast how it was for you because I wanted an easy life. I wanted to believe him._ And then something else falls out of me before I can think twice.

“You never loved Mom, did you?” It’s hardly what I should be focused on, I know, but… “You lied about that too.”

My father searches my face in silence for a moment. I’m caught between praying to everything I believe in and everything I don’t that Fiyr and the others are getting away, and being absolutely terrified of what my father is going to do to me.

The look in his eye is strange, like he’s trying to figure something out. Like he’s trying to judge whether I’ll believe another lie.

Then finally, he smiles a perfect, inhuman, warm smile. His expression is so genuine, and so at odds with what he says next that I wonder in a sudden pitch of doubt how many of his emotions were fabricated, and how many I believed. “I loved her. But I cannot love something below me like an equal. I loved her like a… like a human might love a cat. A pet. She was a distraction.” There’s venom in his eyes, even as he tilts his head.

Rage, bile, furious black-and-red revulsion blaze through me, blinding me and ripping me in half, and my mind’s sent the command to my arm before I can even consider what I’m doing. I lunge forward. My hand, already curled into a white-knuckled fist, pulls back and then—

Glittering silvery blood arcs through the air as my father’s head snaps back. I yank my arm back, hearing only my own heartbeat as my father reels from the punch. His nose, perfectly curved, sprays pale blood on his hand as it rises to cup his face. My fist pulses in pain. I stagger back as well, both of us staring as we realize what I’ve just done.

_Well, that’s it,_ I think faintly as my father’s face twists in rage, sparkling blood splattered over his white cheeks. _No more father and son. No more ‘Clowd the dejka.’ Now we have to run before he kills me._ And I spin on my heel and sprint out of the garden.

Fiyr is frozen, hands half-outstretched like he’s going to grab me. Samn is already mounting Dune. I grab Dune’s saddle, scrambling up behind her when I reach them. Briatte and the stranger both swing themselves onto their horses, kicking off into a flat-out sprint, with Samn, Fiyr, and me not far behind.

My father roars.

My eardrums pop as the sear of god-magic permeates the air and before I know what I’m doing, I feel my own magic crackling under my fingernails, in the base of my back, and over my scalp.

I twist around as we take off toward the silverpeaks, and a helpless wail breaks out of me as I see my father, his eyes blisteringly blue and almost glowing in the distance as the land between us stretches out. If ever I’ve looked at him and managed to ignore his glaringly god-like features, those perceptions are retroactively ripped away from me as this inhuman creature gathers his power.

He lifts his hands, and fissures appear, running through the earth behind us, beginning to splinter like he’s tearing apart the land itself. I feel his magic, a twin to my own, as it knifes through the dirt, deeper and deeper, splitting it apart.

Briatte screams as the broken earth begins to catch up with us, our horses footfalls growing increasingly risky. _I have to do something, or we’ll all be thrown from our horses!_ There’s no sword sequence, no footwork that’ll save us now though.

My magic barrages up as I call to it, and I fling out a hand behind me, the other wrapped tightly around Samn’s midsection. A shower of sparks blows out, shooting into the earth. _Seal up, stop breaking,_ I plead with it. I can almost feel my father’s power, a tangible thing in the air around us, as my own magic struggles against it. The thunder of our horses’ hooves beats out a frenetic rhythm that my heart matches.

_Don’t break,_ I order the earth, imagining pulling back together two pieces of fraying fabric. Dune stumbles and Samn growls, yanking the reins to swerve to the side of a particularly unsteady fragment of the earth. My heart in my throat, I reach out for the earth again and press it back together.

The sheer, overwhelming potency of my father’s magic makes a tide of despair swell in my chest. Fighting it with my own magic is like trying to scream louder than a hurricane. I stop trying to knit back together the entire land and just focus on what’s right in front of the next step of each horse. I slam each piece back together, tearing the land out of its normal place just to ensure the horses’ hooves land on solid earth, over and over and over again.

I can still hear my father roaring. I don’t know if he’s chasing us, but I can feel his voice howling in my ears. Finally, the earth stops splitting apart and I seal the last of the path in front of us. We’ve escaped the perimeter of the gods’ manors, but now it’s just flat farmland before we’ll get to the protection of the trees at the base of the silverpeaks.

Then I hear the sparkling whine of something shooting through the air. I twist around, and feel my breath catch as I see them. My father’s not chasing us, but he’s sent hurtling spikes of corruption, like unearthly spears, shooting through the air toward us, high above the ground.

Time seems to contract as I watch them, their glittering points aimed at us, close the distance, cutting right through the air. _Stop!_ I command them silently, reaching out with my magic like I can make some kind of wall.

They waver, each arrow of god-magic still level in the air and heading for us, but a little slower. I can smell Fiyr’s life-force as he realizes the danger as well, raring to burn up and protect me even though I know it’s going to be useless against them.

_Stop, stop, please stop._ I don’t know what I’m doing, damn it! I don’t know how to undo this magic, I don’t know how to protect them, and I don’t know if we’re all going to be dead the second the magic catches up, but I reach out anyway and try to bat the arrows to the earth with an imaginary hand.

Their magic sizzles, almost like a language. _We will kill you. Starting with the big, white-haired boy._

 _My father wants me dead._ That’s a terrific realization to grapple with while I’m still trying to fend off the airborne shards that are now rapidly approaching again, close enough that if the horses stopped now they’d run us through in less than a second. The air whines behind us. _Of course he does. Because if he can’t have me, he wants me dead._

But damn it, my mom couldn’t keep me, most of Thundria didn’t want me, and even _I_ don’t want to be myself half the time. _So fuck this, I’m going to live anyway._ I raise both hands, my legs locked around Dune in a chokehold on the horse’s flank.

A different kind of magic, not my corruption elementalism or my putting-the-earth-back-together sparkles ripples through me. Neither human nor god. The spikes are close enough that the magic of them is hot against my skin, and I close my eyes. I call up this power that I’ve only used once before, when I was too young to even really remember it. To save another life.

_I’m not going to die, and neither is my family._

And then just as the shard finally touches my chest, a feeling like taking a bite out of molten glass wracking my body, the corruption disintegrates in a broken chiming sound.

The other spikes, too far to have touched any of them, fall to the earth and shatter. The one that just embedded its point in my chest falls, bouncing off Dune’s foaming flank, and clatters to the field below as well. Within an instant, the horses have left it behind, thundering into the cover of the trees.

My breath is coming in ragged gasps, the feeling of overextending my magic stiffening my fingers as I throw myself forward to avoid losing my balance on Dune and sling an arm around Samn again. The air under the trees is much colder, I realize, as it chills the sweat soaking my neck.

When I look over my shoulder, I can’t see my father anymore. The manor is just a dark smudge on the horizon.

I turn back to the land ahead and see that we’re rapidly approaching the base of the silverpeaks, the earth interrupted with long stretches of stone. I’m shaking with the aftereffects of my brush with the corruption, skin still slick with sweat. I can feel my heart pumping its blue blood out into my veins, rushing toward that nick in my chest and dampening the god-clothes a little.

“He’s gone,” I rasp, then raise my voice. “He’s gone!”

And he is. I can taste the life-force of the queen, or I guess the life-force of the Lunar Temple, and the Wynnder trace-line, and Samn and Fiyr and Briatte’s life-forces… but my father’s sickly sweet smell has finally left my nose. I sag against Samn, trying to catch my breath as the horses slow. I know there’s no way to be certain that he isn’t planning some other attack right this second, but I know my father well enough bt now that I’m pretty sure he thinks his spear-thing was enough to kill a few puny humans. _I hope he thinks I’m dead. I hope he never comes looking for me._

_It’s over, isn’t it? I’m safe again._ Something loosens in my chest and before I can tell myself to keep it in, heavy sobs shake my body.

The horses stop, and I’m still crying. Samn helps me off Dune, and I throw myself at Fiyr, fat tears splashing onto his tunic. He holds me tight, rough cotton on my cheek, the human smell of him flooding me, his sweat and his life-force, the tension in his body easing as he rocks us back in forth—it feels like family.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into his uniform, knowing my voice is going to wobble into more sobs if I try to raise it.

Fiyr’s breath is ragged, almost too loud in my ear, but I’ve never been so grateful to hear such a grating sound. “No, I’m sorry. And I’m so, so glad you’re safe.”

“I love you,” I snivel into his uniform. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“You’re safe,” he says quietly, rubbing my back. “I love you too, Clowd.”

Feeling self-conscious as I reckon with how I probably look, jumping at my uncle and blubbering like Ditanella or Brembal when they scrape their knee, I pull back. My arms are still tight around him, though, even when I tell them to let go. That’s probably for the best. I feel like I’m going to topple to the ground if I let go of him.

“Can we go home now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaa it’s about over boys
> 
> ~Akila


	17. Chapter 16 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks sorry for my erratic updating and interactions. My supervisor tested positive so it looks like I’m gonna be house-bound for a while. More time for fanfiction I guess. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter 16 - Clowd

It takes about an hour to ride back to Ravne’s barn under the cover of the trees. On the way, I learn all about how he was a villager that used to live in the village of the Sun Rocks and witnessed Sir Cawle murder Samn’s father, and then had to flee for his safety but keeps in contact with Thundria when they travel to the Lunar Temple.

Most of it’s lies; Ravne’s tell is the way he unconsciously grabs the feather hanging around his neck, and he smells more like a Thundrian than any villager I’ve ever encountered, despite not even living on our territory. If I had to guess, I’d say he was probably part of Thundria a long time ago, especially because his name sounds so much like ‘raven.’ Maybe a month ago I would have grilled Fiyr for the truth, but Ravne seems about as dangerous as a puppy, and I’m feeling less curious and more ‘I need to go back to my nook in the castle and fall on my bed for six days’ at the moment. Everyone’s got their secrets.

I’m almost falling asleep against Fiyr as they say goodbye to Ravne and only really try to stay awake when we cross the Wynnder trace-line. It’s late afternoon as we cross the craggiest part of their territory, and as it levels off into fields and moors, I start to get drowsy again. When I can just sort of balance myself against Fiyr’s back and not worry about steering the horse, the movement is surprisingly soothing.

_I can’t believe it’s over,_ I think in the dreamy space between sleeping and waking. The heat of the day is finally subsiding, and as a cool evening breeze washes over me, exhaustion strikes like a load of bricks. _My own father…_ I remember what the magic of the spikes ‘said.’ _To kill me first… he wanted me dead… because I didn’t want to stay with him._ My eyes flutter shut. _Did Violetta know? She thought I would be useful for them… because my father trusts me… or trusted me… but I don’t think he does. I think he wanted me to be someone I wasn’t. I think he wanted me to… just be him._ I remember the not-me that looked out of the mirror and shudder.

“Clowd? Are you awake?” Fiyr asks, his voice rumbling through his back and into my body.

“Mm,” I grunt.

“We’ve got company.”

I jerk upright, peeking out from behind Fiyr’s shoulder, and see a smudge on the red horizon, where the hills meet the sky. Then I begin to hear the hoofbeats as they gallop down toward us. I fight a yawn as I straighten properly, too groggy to muster more than faint concern. _We can’t fight, I don’t have_ Papercut _and I’m so… so tired._

Samn stops our little patrol as they approach, and dismounts Dune as if in a show of peace. The woman at the head of the Wynnder patrol pulls her gray gelding to a halt as well, without unseating herself.

“Lady Schorme.” She sounds faintly surprised. In the low light, I can see that she has the long dark features of a pure-court Wynnder, and the biceps of someone I don’t want to fight. As her horse shuffles sideways a little, I see that her brown uniform is stretched taut over a pregnant belly.

_Then maybe she won’t want to fight…?_ I blink hopefully at her. The knights behind her seem to be deferring to her; a sandy-brown haired man around Fiyr’s age, a young woman whose white hair is stark against her dark brown skin, and a lean, gray-haired boy about Sewif’s age.

“Lady Fote,” Samn answers, sounding far friendlier than I’ve heard her when talking to someone from another court. “I apologize for our trespassing, we had urgent business to conduct in the Lunar Temple.”

Lady Fote is quiet, her sharp, dark eyes flitting over our patrol, cataloguing the presence of only one knight besides Samn, Briatte, and I, and then returning to Samn. “Without the queen?”

_Caught._ I shift in the saddle, feeling more awake.

“She is recovering from a small ankle injury,” she lies again. Samn’s one of the easiest people to lie _to_ , because she hardly seems to notice when I stutter or contradict myself, but I’m kind of impressed by how quickly she’s coming up with explanations. I don’t know if the queen’s even done anything that could risk an ankle injury in the past months, but Lady Fote nods.

“I see. Did you find the answers you sought?”

Samn frowns. “Will you allow us to pass? The tyrant is long dead. Your court has no quarrel with us.”

“We do if you will insist on trying to slip through our territory undetected,” Lady Fote answers evenly, pointedly looking down at Samn from her mounted position as if to illustrate that we’re at a disadvantage. “But we won’t be ungracious hosts. Sir Newskar, Lady Teala, shall we escort these Thundrians off our territory?”

I search for the edge in her voice, but she seems to be saying exactly what her words mean. _Then no fight?_ I breathe a sigh of relief as ‘Lady Teala,’ the striking-haired woman moves around to ride next to Briatte with the gangly boy at her side, and Sir Newskar comes to the side of Fiyr and I.

Lady Fote wheels her gelding around and spurs him into a gallop without waiting for Samn’s acquiescence, and with a huff, Samn drops back to escort her squire, shooting a suspicious look at Lady Teala.

I send my own wary glance at Sir Newskar, but he’s got an affable, open face, and soon strikes up conversation with Fiyr like they’re old friends. I grunt, still eyeing him, then return to half-falling-asleep against Fiyr.

By the time Fiyr nudges me awake, it’s twilight and we’re crossing the solstice pavilion. Fiyr waves to Sir Newskar for reasons I can’t fathom— _Did they really chum up that much in a couple hours?_ —and I blink awake.

“We should tell your mom you’re safe,” Fiyr comments to me, still looking ahead at the darkening path. “She’s been worried sick.”

Guilt nips at me as I consider just how long I was gone. _What would I do if Faern disappeared on me like that?_ “Okay.”

“Not tonight, though. You need to rest.”  
I don’t know why, but tears spring to my eyes when he says that, and I squish my face against the back of his uniform to dry them. _He’s just looking out for you,_ I tell myself, trying to stymie the flow of more tears. And… snot. _Great._

As I start to drift off again as we enter Thundria, I’m thinking about Violetta again. _Who does she have looking out for her? If she’s in charge of that whole… thing… and she wanted_ my _help…_ That would be scary, I think. _I wonder what happened to her dad and her brothers._

I wake up again when we reach the Thundrian stables. Fiyr helps me off Blitz and I stumble a little in the dark, my legs stiff.

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” Fiyr says quietly, and I let him support me all the way into the castle.

It’s way past sunset, and most of everyone should be asleep, but Lady Faise, Faern, Cindra, Sir Peyelt, Sir Fere, and the queen are all in the throne room. I flush as they all burst into murmurs and relieved sighs when they see me.

Lady Faise is the first to hurry over to me, wrapping me in a warm hug. I hug her back just as tight, feeling more and more guilty as she pulls back and looks me over, noticing my clothes and my slumped posture.

“You’re home,” is all she says, though. And then, giving me a look, “You gave us all quite a fright.”

I nod mutely, and submit to a fierce bearhug from Faern. Then one from Cindra. Sir Fere and Sir Peyelt begin to speak with Samn about what happened, then move on to Fiyr when Samn disappears with the queen into her private chambers. I watch them go, wondering if I’ll be expected to come give my side of the story or whatever. But they don’t come back out, and eventually Fiyr, with one last crushing hug to me like he can’t believe I’m really back and alive, heads off to the knight’s wing. I take that as my cue.

Just as I’m about to tear off these stupid clothes and faceplant onto my pillow, Cindra catches my arm.

“Clowd…” Her expression is sympathetic. “You should get some rest, but I want you to know that…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what you went through, but stuff like this can leave a mark. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

Her concern almost makes me angry with myself again. I’m too tired to work up more than _You dumb, dumb idiot. Look at all these people who care so much about you._ “Thanks, Cindra.”

“Now go to bed before I knock you out myself. You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Cindra.”

Faern catches up easily to me as I hobble off to the squire’s wing.

“Sorry,” I say as she just walks next to me, looking straight ahead. “I’m really sorry.”

Faern still doesn’t say anything as we separate and get into our sleep-clothes. I feel bad that I kept her up so late; she always oversleeps. As I tug off the slippery silk of the clothes my father gave me, a slip of paper tumbles out of the pants. I retrieve it from the stone floor and find Layli’s note folded inside of the sheet of music with the god-toy lullaby on it. Thumbing the symbol below the line of handwriting, I place them on my bedside table, resolving to tell Samn and Fiyr about the Mer-marked and Violetta tomorrow.

Finally, as I’m getting into bed and pulling my quilt up to my chin, there’s a little _swish_ as Faern pulls my nook’s curtain open.

I pause, about to blow out my candle, and wait as she scrambles into my bed next to me, tugging the covers over herself too. I fall back against my pillow, leaving the candle lighting the room in a flickering orange glow. We’re kind of too big for this, but once I shift over, there’s room for both of us.

“I was so scared,” Faern finally mumbles, staring at the ceiling. I roll onto my side carefully so I’m looking at her profile. “I thought you were dead, or… or that you didn’t want to come back.”

My shame is all the sharper because I know that I was actually considering leaving her behind forever. I swallow.

“I thought I wouldn’t get to say goodbye.” Her voice breaks, and she tilts her head toward mine, the tears that were brimming in her eyes spilling onto her cheeks and then splashing onto the pillow between us.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so, so, so sorry. I don’t want to leave you and Thundria. I’m not a god, you know? I’m a Thundrian. And I’m your brother.”

She slings an arm over my back, like she’s trying to keep me lying next to her. “Yeah.” She sniffs, then says, “You’re not going anywhere?”

“Never again,” I promise, then hug her back, finally feeling my last dregs of energy slough off into exhaustion. “I’m staying. G’night, Fairy.”

“Night, Chowder,” she mumbles, voice muffled by the way she’s practically squashing her face against the pillow. I forgot that’s how she likes to sleep. It’s a wonder she doesn’t smother herself in her sleep.

I hum contentedly as I feel her slacken into sleep, and then I drift off too, listening to her breathing.

…

As predicted, Faern is still snoring like a horse with a cold when I wake up, but I leave her to sleep in and get dressed quietly, crouched in the corner of my nook so we don’t have an awkward encounter if she does wake up.

I leave the squire’s nook with the same guilt and worry settled in my stomach, knowing today’s when everyone’s going to find out that I’m back. _What will Fiyr tell them?_

When I get my breakfast—a boiled egg, how delightful—and sit in the dining hall at a deserted table, some people come over to welcome me back. Sir Strommer seems particularly relieved I’m back, and I consider him walks back off to sit with Lady Faise and their friends.

_Does he count as my dad too?_ Lady Faise has always felt like something of a mother to me, but Sir Strommer was always Faern’s dad. _And then if Fiyr’s kind of like a father figure to me as well, but his wife is Sir Strommer’s wife’s daughter…_ My brain hurts. _But I have so much family. I guess I’m pretty lucky._ I don’t feel lucky, though, just more guilty that I ever could have thought I would be better off with some god I don’t know.

Sir Wynnd comes over as well, and I muster a smile for him.

“Welcome back!” He offers me a grin and a cup of orange juice, and I take it, a little weirded out. He claps me on the shoulder and then tosses over his shoulder as he goes, “We were all worried, Clowd.”

I don’t know how much I believe him; _all_ would imply that Darriek wasn’t throwing a party that the half-breed was gone. Still, I know he means well. _He’s been like a step-mentor, too._ I wince, thinking of how I treated him when it felt like Fiyr didn’t have time for me. _I’ve been a dick, haven’t I?_

Briatte comes to sit with me, which means Sewif and Thorrin trail her. I don’t mind, though; Briatte’s definitely more bearable than Sewif or her brother. _Which, to hear Faern tell it, means we’re going to get United and have lots of babies._

“Glad to have you back,” she says as she slides onto the bench across from me. “I guess we didn’t really get a chance to talk last night, what with the whole…” She smiles, darting awkward looks at our company. “The whole thing.”

_How much is the queen going to tell the court? I’m assuming Samn will tell her the whole story…_ I nod. “Thanks. I’m glad I’m back.”

Sewif gives me a shrewd look that reminds me of Violetta. “So what happened to you, anyway?”

 _Well. Now what?_ “Uh… I…” I affect an aloof air and force a shrug. “I don’t know how much of it I’m supposed to talk about.”

Thorrin rolls his eyes. “You got kidnapped and you’re ‘not sure how much of it you can talk about?’ Where have you been for the last seven days?”

I’m saved from further interrogation when Fiyr appears in the entrance of the dining hall. He’s not usually an early riser, but he looks much better rested than he did yesterday. He comes right over and touches my shoulder, ignoring the other squires. “The queen wants to speak with you, Clowd.”

I leave half the egg on the plate and scramble off the bench in a hurry. Sewif’s stare follows me out of the hall. Fiyr brings me into the queen’s chambers, a small dark room with one adjoining door that presumably leads to where the queen sleeps, and no windows at all.

Samn’s already there, standing next to the queen like a guard on watch. She softens a little when she sees me being herded in by Fiyr, which is to say, her near-permanent grimace wavers a little.

“Sit,” the queen says, mostly shrouded by the dim light and the halo of gray hair that keeps the torchlight away from her face. I swallow, a little discomfited by the way she stares me down, then slide into the seat across from her desk. Fiyr stays standing behind me. “Lady Schorme has explained the situation to me.”

“Oh?” is the most I can manage under her attention.

“I wish to hear your side,” she says, still unwavering in her stony look. “I have been informed that your father kept you prisoner in his house and an outlander came to inform Lady Schorme that they had seen you by the gods’ manors near the silverpeaks.”

“That’s all true.” I dart a look at Samn, who has a similarly hard-to-read stare. She crosses her arms, which doesn’t put me at ease at all.

The queen tilts her head a little. She’s not wearing her crown, I realize. I wonder where she keeps it. Does she have a hanger for it? “What I fail to understand is your father’s intentions and how he managed to locate you.”

“Um… he…” I squeeze my thumbs in my fists, keeping them in my lap and forcing the lying part of my brain to help me out here. “I think he wanted to turn me into a real god, like… like an heir.”

“I see. And how did he find you?”

I look from Samn to Fiyr, and wonder if I should come clean about visiting my mother and how I actually kind of did want to get to know my father. _Wouldn’t that just complicate things…?_ I relax my hands and meet her gaze steadily as I say, “I don’t know. Maybe some kind of god-tracking ability.”

I don’t know if she believes me, but she nods again. “Will he try to locate you again?”

“He doesn’t want me as his heir anymore, I know that much.” _As far as he knows, he shot a bunch of murderous god-magic at me. He thinks I’m dead._

“Fine. Lady Schorme, you may tell the court that Clowd was briefly kidnapped by gods. For his privacy, leave the details of his father out of it. Dismissed.”

It’s so abrupt that we’re left staring at each other for a moment before I think to stand up and leave. As Fiyr leads me back out of the queen’s chambers, I feel a little disoriented. _Isn’t she…? I don’t know, glad that I’m not dead?_ I blink, then look at Fiyr. He’s a little paler, staring ahead, and I see my own uneasiness reflected in his face. _Something’s going on with her, I think. At least everyone’s not going to know about my dad._

“What now?” I ask as he slows to a halt, seemingly randomly, in the middle of the throne room.

He looks at me like he forgot I was next to him, then gives his shoulders a little shake and answers, “Finish eating and we’ll go see your mom.”

When I return to the dining hall, Thorrin and Sewif are both gone and Briatte is clearing their plates.

“Clowd!” She pauses when she sees me and apologetically pushes my plate with its half-egg on it back toward me. “Sorry, I didn’t know if you would… Um, what did the queen say?”

I finish the egg in a couple of bites, ignoring its too-slippery texture against the roof of my mouth. “Just, y’know, questions about if the court’s gonna be attacked by m—a vengeful god. Lady Schorme filled her on most of it.”

“Ah.” Briatte makes a face, then sits back down across from me. “And… are we going to be attacked? More than we were yesterday, I guess…?”

_That must have been scary for her,_ I think, remember my own panic upon seeing a bunch of god-magic spikes hurtling through the air towards us. And the earth breaking apart. And my father’s inhuman roar. _Is that what Cindra meant when she was talking about ‘the mark that these things leave…?’_ I don’t think I’m going to forget any part of my father trying to wipe me off the earth in a hurry. “Probably not.”

Briatte grins, relief evident. I guess she’s a _bit_ pretty when she smiles like that, but I don’t really notice. “I’m glad to hear that.” Then she sobers a little. “How do you feel about it? Like… I dunno, your dad attacking all of us…?”  
_Well, I guess there are a_ few _people at court who are going to know the truth about my dad._ I set my jaw. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? The queen’s not going to tell anyone that it was my dad who… you know. So… just don’t go blabbing to Sewif or Thorrin, okay?”

Briatte frowns. “I wouldn’t, Clowd.” I stand to clear my plate and she follows me into the kitchen. “I really wouldn’t, you know?”

I peer at her out of the corner of my eye as I leave my plate next to the sink, but sincerity is plain on her face. “Yeah, okay.”

“So what are you and Sir Harte doing today?”

“We’re—” _Don’t tell her about Mom! What are you doing, Clowd?_

She raises an eyebrow as I clamp my mouth shut. “Uh, okay. Sorry, I know… um, I can just go ask Lady Schorme. Ask her what _I’m_ doing, not what you’re doing.”

“No, that’s okay,” I say quickly, more guilt pooling in my stomach at the way she rambles. “I’m going to see my mom, actually, to let her know that I’m back.”

Briatte’s eyes widen. “Oh wow. Your mom… um, she’s a god-toy, right?”

“Yeah.” I squint at her, not totally sure what her tone is implying.

She just nods though. “Okay. I was going to ask Lady Schorme if we could train together today or something, but… I mean, I totally get that I’m not…”

“You can come.” I don’t know why I say that, but it comes out before I can think better of it. Then on an impulse, I add, “Well, you don’t have to. But you were part of the… the saving-Clowd team, so she’d probably want to meet you.”

“Oh! Really?”

I shrug again, leaving the kitchen with her trailing me. “If F—Sir Harte says it’s okay, then sure.”

That’s how me, Fiyr, Samn, and Briatte all end up riding to the wall on the outer border. Fiyr gave me an all-too-knowing look when I asked if Briatte could come along that made me squirm a little. Still, she’s good company for the ride when Fiyr and Samn are doing their famed ‘riding next to each other and ignoring Clowd’ routine.

Fiyr climbs the wall and keeps watch to see if my mom will come out and Samn, Briatte, and I loiter at the base of it while we wait.

“Looking forward to getting back into training?” Samn asks, ever the conversationalist.

“Definitely,” I answer, and I’m a little surprised to realize I’m being honest. Even if Fiyr puts me through a bunch of footwork drills that I’ve already mastered, it’s better than what I’ve been through in the past few days. _I guess laundry duty looks pretty good compared to a supernaturally powerful monster-in-deceptively-perfect-skin trying to murder me for wanting to say goodbye to my family._

“Faern’s learned a new trick with her summoning,” Briatte warns me, one eye still on the wall like she’s expecting a god to blow through it and try to murder us. I am kind of also worried about that. “She’ll lure you into the bracken and then make it wrap around your ankles.” She rolls up the sleeve of her boy squire’s uniform to demonstrate an impressively purple bruise.

“At least she won’t try to give me rabies,” I snort.

“That was _normal dog saliva_ ,” Briatte retorts, grinning. “Fluffy was just smelling the chicken on you.”

“I’m not a chicken!” I’m ready to pull out _Papercut_ and turn this into a proper duel, just to have something to pass the time, when Fiyr calls,

“Clowd! She’s here.”

A moment later, Mom’s head pops out above the wall, then she swings herself over and jumps down onto the grass next to us.

I throw my arms around her, bypassing any kind of greeting, and I feel myself swing hard from the light teasing of Briatte to intense relief and the volatile leftovers of yesterday. Mom squeezes me tight against her chest and I rest my head on her shoulder, feeling more tears swell up in my throat, stinging my nose.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she murmurs into my hair.

“Me too,” I answer, a weird laugh-sob coming out as another wave of ‘Wow, I’m a terrible person for making all these people who love me scared’ hits. It feels like the last one of its kind, though, crashing against the shore and then becoming water again. “I’m sorry I made you worried, Mom.”

“I’m always going to worry about you,” she sighs, finally letting me go. Her eyes, warm-human-brown, fix me with such a look of relief and love that my heart seems to slow its rhythm a little, settling into a normal pace. “Always. But you’re saf _er_ now, right?”

“Right.” _Fiyr’s not going to kill me for leaving. My own guilt might, though._ “And Mom, there’re a few people I’d like you to meet.”

Fiyr makes the introductions with more than a teaspoon of awkwardness as Samn gives my mom the stiffest handshake I’ve ever seen and Briatte just sort of waves. But they all seem to find common ground in how worried they were about my disappearance, then Samn and Mom start commiserating about Fiyr’s sleeping habits, and we’re off to the races.

I step back for a moment, watching them, and observing Briatte’s wild gesturing as she relates how I ran from one of her summons in a spar—I distinctly remember fending the dog off easily, but I guess she’s using a little artistic freedom—and a feeling like a warm blanket settles over me. Maybe it’s just the heat of the sun rising, but still, comfort spreads all the way to my fingertips as I watch them. This weird little family I’ve cultivated, and Briatte too, all standing and talking together. For the first time since I launched myself onto Dune’s saddle yesterday, I feel truly safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil wrap up I know this doesn’t have much going for it but I hope you liked! A review always mean many things to me.
> 
> ~Akila


	18. Chapter 17 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me forgetting to upload twice in a row it’s more likely than you think. Anyway let’s make it worse before it gets better. This chapter has a warning for graphic depictions of violence. If you’re feeling squeamish, no harm in sitting it out. You’ll be able to piece together what’s going on.

Chapter 17 - Samn Schorme

I’m up in the north tower when I receive the news.

It’s becoming a place I spend more and more time; secluded enough that I can expect to be undisturbed, but not so hidden that I would be inaccessible in a crisis. Usually I use it as a quiet place to correspond with governors or mayors.

Today, I’m focused more on foreign diplomacy.

_Naitienne - Probably dead._

Those words sit at the top of my sheaf of parchment in my own uneven, rounded handwriting.

The Gathering was four days ago, and Shodawa was entirely absent. I haven’t heard a peep from either Cindra or the Shodawes knights, and my worst anxieties tell me that the latter is because they’re dead. _My fault? Does Cindra blame me? Could I have saved them?_ has worn a circular track in my brain since the Gathering.

Beneath it I’ve written _Sir Faer - Almost certainly dead._

And below that… it’s devolved into a loose array of thoughts, theories, prayers, and fears. _Lady Feure - ??? Med Naos - Talking nonsense, not a leader._

We have another two seasons before the next Gathering. A great deal could happen in that time. An outsider could rise to power. Perhaps they will crown Lady Feure, she will receive her Blessings, and everything will go back to normal. _Which, just… judging by how the transfer of power in Shodawa usually goes, is almost impossibly unlikely._

Which leaves the other names floating around the page. _Med Naos can’t be their king, of course, but whoever he throws his weight behind will probably also garner the support of the rest of the court,_ I muse. _On the other hand, how many are still loyal to Tigre’s cronies? If one of them reappeared, perhaps they’d welcome him as a king._ The thought of Blayke Fouhte, the oaf, or one of the cutthroat sellswords that the Broken King originally brought in to their court sitting on their throne makes my stomach turn. _I know the Thundrian captain should hardly have a hand in their choice, but as long as it’s not someone who was directly responsible for the deaths of multiple children, I’ll be fine._

At least Wynnd seems cordial now that the Broken King is dead done and buried, and while King Crukkedaro seems almost in worse health if it were possible, he hasn’t been causing any trouble either. Which leaves Shodawa and their leadership crisis to occupy my thoughts and paper. I went to Lady Eie this morning again, and she merely replied that once more, her dreams were filled with fire. Fantastically unhelpful, given that seems unlikely to have anything to do with the Shodawes line of succession. _Lady Fire, maybe._

This is the conundrum I’m mulling when Fiyr bursts through the doors.

“Samn, Samn, you have to come now,” he gasps.

I push myself off the balcony’s banister, already folding up my thinking-paper to occlude its contents from him, and bundle the supplies I brought up under my arm. “What’s going on?”

“Some kind of altercation by the soulpath,” Fiyr answers, half-through the door before even catching his breath. “Thorrin came back. Their patrol.”

_Lady Fyrra and Sir Wynnd are out alone, then?_

“Altercation with who?” I hurry after him, taking the stairs down two at a time. Sandstorm’ _s in my room. I need to speak with the court before that. Do I tell the queen first? We have to get a patrol to them as soon as possible! But I have to keep Thorrin out of the action._

“He said mercs, but—” Fiyr leaps down the last flight, an echo of his acrobat’s grace. “He said they were familiar.”

_Braukkin’s outlaws._ My heart slams into my throat. _They must be under Tigre’s command. Or Shodawa. Is Sir Fouhte or one of the others gaining power in Shodawa already? Is this the enemy that seems to sleep, Father?_

“Dammit,” I hiss as we pass through the doors into a frenzied throne room. “Fiyr, I need you to tell the queen what’s going on. Thorrin isn’t going back into the conflict; if it’s mercenaries, he’s too young. I’ll head the patrol. Fiyr, once the queen knows, you’re leading a second wind; take Sir Teyl, Sewif, Sir Fere, and Lady Fuor.”

“Got it.” He nods sharply to me as we separate, him heading for the queen’s private chambers and me bounding up the steps of the dais and standing in front of the amassed crowd.

“Thundria!” I shout above the rapid conversations. Thorrin is standing with his mother and sister, looking very shaken. I address the crowd first. “Lady Fyrra and Sir Wynnd have found trouble by the soulpath in the north forests. Sir Strommer, Lady Peilte, Lady Faise, and Sir Peyelt, you’re with me. Lady Fuor, Sir Fere, Sir Teyl, and Sewif, you’ll head out with Fiyr the moment he’s informed the queen of what’s going on.”

I suddenly question my judgement in including Sewif. He’s eighteen, I know, but seems suddenly very young looking up at me from the crowd. _There’s no time! Trust your instincts,_ my captain voice snaps. “Right! Get your weapons, over-armour, and we’ll depart the moment everyone’s at the stables. Lady Flourer and Lady Tiall, you’ll stand guard. If they attack the castle, you have the queen.”

_Protect her,_ I plead with them silently, then after tossing one last look over my shoulder to see whether Fiyr’s re-emerged, I descend the dais at a flat sprint and then launch myself up the stairs of the knight’s wing with my patrol hot on my heels. _You have a plan. You have knights. You have training. They’re a bunch of amateur outlaws,_ I tell myself, heaving breaths as I wrestle the padded jacket over my head, and then drop the boiled leather over-armour atop it. _But there’s no time to lose, because Sir Wynnd and Lady Fyrra are alone. They have speed and energy alchemy, though; surely that will see them through?_

In the blink of an eye, we’re assembled at the stables, all mounting in great haste and then taking off toward the gap of leaves. Dune hardly misses a stride as we shoot through the Blessing and into the forest below.

I thunder ahead of my patrol, heels pinned to Dune’s side and fingers tight to prevent my sweaty grip from slackening on the reins for even a moment. The muggy air plasters my undershirt, beneath many layers of padded armour, to my chest. I find myself wishing Graie was with us as I jerk Dune left at a fork. He’d know how quickest to get to Sir Wynnd and Lady Fyrra.

“Sir Strommer, Lady Peilte, on my right!” I shout back to them. “Mom, Duss, on my left! Get ready!’

The thump of the hooves matches my heartrate as we close the distance to the soulpath. _What will we find there? Sir Terote and Sir Cleude? Outlaws? Tigre?_ I drop one of the reins and palm _Sandstorm_. _Good. I hope he’s there. He can’t lurk in the shadows if I kill him._

Just as we plunge into the thicket that separates us, I jerk back as a white shape explodes out of the leaves in a frenzy of wingbeats.

_A dove?_ I channel the Trace and unsheathe _Sandstorm_ at the same time. _Dove-summoner, it must be._ A dozen other life-forces batter me, Lady Fyrra’s sizzling-oil alchemy and Sir Wynnd’s freezing-mint feeling singing above the others, brought out loud and strong by their danger.

“Thundria!” Sir Strommer yells as we ride into the combat.

Or… try to.

Instead, the horses burst out on a deserted stretch of field in front of the soulpath. We all rein our horses in immediately to avoid riding onto the soulpath, and I dismount Dune as quick as I can.

“Lady Fyrra? Sir Wynnd—”

The words catch in my ears and I hear an air-splitting scream. _Was that me?_ My heartbeat swells in my ears until I can barely hear the shouts and cries from my patrol. There’s a shape at the edge of the clearing.

Sir Wynnd lies, dragged halfway into the bushes, his clothing barely recognizable from blood soaking him. He stares up. Unmoving.

Duss gags behind me. I sprint to Sir Wynnd’s side without a second thought. He’s been split him from sternum to navel, the blood pooled around him warmer than his skin. I’ve opened my mouth to call his name, but the smell of gore and death drives it right back down my throat. _What’s the use? He’s dead. Sir Wynnd is dead._ Then I hear a rustling in front of me.

My head snaps up and I jump to my feet, _Sandstorm_ out and ready.

Weith Terote, his eyes filled with horror and hands clutching his mouth, stands between the bushes. Blood stains his front.

Fiyr’s repeated words echo in my ears. His certainty. _My_ certainty.

“What have you done?” The snarl is out of my mouth before I can consider my actions.

I throw myself at him and he dodges away, unarmed and reaching out like his pale hands can protect him from my blade.

I hear the hum of life-force a split second before wings, as white as snow, snap out from his back.

_The dove-summoner._ My resolve turns to true-steel. I can hear Sir Strommer and Lady Faise faintly, but my blood rushes in my ears, drowning them out. Sir Terote shoots past me, too-graceful and too-fast on traited wings and as frantic as a caged bird. I only falter for a moment before throwing myself after him.

“I didn’t!” he’s screaming as he escapes the bushes, his wings flaring to catch the air.

_He’s about to get away!_ I take a running start and jump just as he lifts off the ground, _Sandstorm_ sweeping out. I’m trying to knock him out with the hilt aimed at the back of his head, but as his wings extend to prepare another wingbeat, they move into the path of my sword’s arc and the blade slides through his feathers and flesh.

The laceration spits blood at me as Sir Terote screams again, flung through the air by his own off-kilter momentum. I drop like a stone. Bracing for the teeth-rattling impact, I seize my bearings and look up in time to see Sir Terote crumple onto grass and roll.

Roll toward the soulpath.

“No!” I yell.

A sound like a thousand shattering mirrors shreds the air as a sparkling bolt of god-magic slams into Sir Terote. His entire body seems to bend with its force, a hundred little cracks harmonizing with the shrill whistle of the god-soul. Once more, he’s flung through the air, his wings a tattered mess of red and smouldering feathers.

His body rolls again, the wings encircling him like a feathery tomb, then he stops in a heap on the other side of the soulpath. I choke back a scream, still on my knees by the bushes.

“Samn!” my mother exclaims, rushing to my side. She tries to help me up, but my limbs are numb and buzzing like they’ve been commandeered by moths. I collapse forward, trying to stay steady on the earth that feels like it’s swinging out from under me.

“Sir Wynnd’s dead!” Duss yells, his voice raw and indistinct on my left.

_And so is Sir Terote,_ I know in an instant. _No one could survive that._ His last words ring in my ears. _I didn’t!_

_Then who did? Where’s Lady Fyrra? Sir Wynnd is dead._

My mother helps me to my feet and I blink away the stinging in my eyes, staring at the hazy outline of Sir Terote’s corpse on the other side.

A man steps out of the bushes behind him, broad-shouldered as an ox, and draws a sword from his belt.

Shadows spill from the bushes, melting to his sides and drawing their own blades. The last to emerge tugs a struggling woman with him, one hand gripping her wrist and the other holding a dagger.

“Mauzian.” I can barely manage more than a rasp as she continues to try to wrench herself free of her captor’s hold, streaked in blood and grime but bearing no visible injuries. _Mousefur_ is out of sight. Then I look back to the leader of their group and every ounce of blood in my body goes cold as winter in the blazing sun. “Tigre.”

Sir Cawle says nothing, simply trains his glittering stare on me. Then he looks down at Sir Terote’s crumpled body, whose wings have faded off him leaving him looking small and curled in on himself. In a movement simple and senseless in its brutality, he steps forward and kicks the body with one boot.

Weith’s body flips, one corruption-studded arm flinging and laying across the dirt at a sickening angle. Sir Cawle regards him for another moment, then looks back up at me.

“What a pity,” he rumbles, the sudden familiarity of his voice raising the hair on my arms.

“This is your doing,” I breathe, gaze flicking back to Sir Wynnd’s half-hidden body. “You killed Sir Wynnd, and… let Lady Fyrra go.”

He looks over at her like he forgot she was even there. “Oh, no, no, no, I don’t think so.”

“Tigre, you don’t have to do this,” Sir Strommer says, stepping forward with his hands empty and spread like a peace offering. The same way Sir Terote put up his hands to my blade, screaming _I didn’t_. My heart thuds.

“I do.” The menace in his voice simmers to the surface. “Thundria owes me a blood-debt. That little bitch took my eye, so I’m taking something from you.”

_You have taken enough!_ my captain voice roars within.

“Don’t do this,” Sir Strommer repeats.

“The hand, I think.”

_I’m not going to get there in time._ My life-force surges in my chest, tendrils of sand threading the air like lightning, all shooting toward the grinning man who—

Who wrenches Mauzian’s hand forward and starts sawing.

My sand is blasted to nothing by the soulpath. Lady Fyrra’s life-force explodes out in a shock wave, the man holding the knife dropping to the earth in immediate sluggish exhaustion, but it’s not much use at all; Mauzian passes out from the pain a second later and one of his companions snatches up the dagger and finishes what he started.

“No!”

I sprint to the soulpath’s edge, my life-force already answering my unformed call to shield me from the god-magic and shooting up in a wall of sandstone. I cross the soulpath in two strides, and launch myself at Tigre. I can’t help Mauzian now.

His first blow sends me staggering backward, nearly tripping over Sir Terote’s body. I barely get _Sandstorm_ up in time to block. _I have to get to Lady Fyrra, we have to get her back to the castle, I have to get Mom back to the castle_ — _I have to kill this man._

I drive a stab at his belly and he dodges, one hand flung out as if to trace the edge of my blade. His life-force shoots up the pommel and I know in an instant that _Sandstorm_ ’s become about as sharp as a butterknife. _Well, I’ll settle for bludgeoning him to death,_ I think faintly and grab it with both hands to block the swing at my neck he’s making.

Before I can make good on that vow, he makes another drive at my other side. I leap backward, scrambling for some plan to get him off his ironclad-guard when Sir Cawle abruptly freezes. We stare at each other, then he whips around and runs at his new target with _Tigerclaw_ extended.

_Not my mother!_ I’m not sure if I scream it or not. I’m sprinting after him again, exhaustion and pain aching in each bone, and careen into his broad back with my butterknife in hand.

Sir Cawle staggers, then falls when I add the impact of a few spikes of sandstone extending from my palms in a distinctly Clowd-like move. As if he’s managed to create some kind of alchemical barrier around himself, when the spikes come within a hair of his skin, the tips round until they’re more like batons than daggers. Still, they batter him at my command, and Sir Cawle topples onto his front a few yards in front of where my mother is soundly beating an outlaw.

I’m ready to use this opportunity to slip _Sandstorm_ around his neck and snap it, but a moment of instinctively scanning the clearing reveals that we are painfully, hopelessly outnumbered. Lady Fyrra is still curled on the ground around her bleeding wrist-stump. Sir Strommer is fighting two outlaws off alone, Duss and Lady Peilte fight back-to-back, and my mother seems to have summoned an entire pride of lions that are decimating her corner of the combat. Still, there are a dozen or more outlaws and until Fiyr’s patrol arrives.

_Fiyr’s patrol. Where the fuck are they?_

I’ve lost my chance. Sir Cawle rolls away and jumps to his feet, ever-sharpened _Tigerclaw_ in one hand and his life-force ring twinkling like an evil eye on his other.

“For Rivier!”

The outlaws, my patrol, Sir Cawle, and I all freeze, then whip around in unison to see—

“Graie!” Fiyr shouts as his own patrol stampedes through the bushes on the other side of the soulpath.

Graie’s group of blue-clothed Riviens bursts through the trees on foot and Fiyr and the others soon join him, dismounting their horses and throwing up protective life-forces to cross the soulpath, then descend on the outlaws like a pack of ravenous wolves.

I turn back and see the outlaws all shrinking in fear as snow, stone, and water erupt through the clearing, alchemy turns the air to burning mist, and the arms of a half-dozen summoners turn to gnarled claws. Some of them start fleeing.

“Cowards!” Sir Cawle roars above the bedlam, turning his burning eye on me. “This isn’t over!”

“Yes, it is!” I snarl right back and bring my blunted sword back down at him, Fiyr’s fire blazing to life at my side.

Still, as we beat him back, life-force and weaponry moving in symphony, I can’t look away from his murderous, hateful stare. His hired swords and brutal companions are fleeing or close to it, rightly terrified by the sudden turn of the tables. There’s no hint of fear in Tigre’s eyes, though. He goes after Fiyr with a viciousness that makes me dizzy with rage and panic. _Is this how he killed my father? Is this why he keeps taking from us?_

_Thundria owes me,_ echoes in my head as I knock his next blow aside and open him to an attack by Fiyr. I see it, glowing in his eye, in every word he spits at us. Suddenly, it’s clear as day. _He believes he is owed a crown. Power. It is his due, and we have taken it from him._

“You took my father,” I whisper, aiming a useless stab at his chest. “You took him!”

“He was in my way.” Sir Cawle’s next strike knocks _Sandstorm_ from my hands. Some feral part of me shouts to jump on him and shred him to ribbons with my nails and teeth.

“You’ve _lost_. Go!” Fiyr growls, a jet of flame shooting from _Fireheart_ as he swings it for Sir Cawle’s side.

“Maybe. But I will be king triumphant,” he whispers, like a prophecy. Then he steps back, out of the range of our attacks. “You cannot wear the crown. You’re nothing.” He smiles, just sharp, sharp teeth and one glowing, dark eye. Then he takes another step back, halfway into the bushes. The last of his allies are disengaging, seeing him go. “And I’ll be back for my throne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He bacc. Review sir?
> 
> ~Akila


	19. Chapter 18 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey demons it’s me your boy
> 
> Today marks the third chapter in a row that I have forgotten to update lol. In my defense it’s been an interesting week. I got tested for covid, applied to university, spent nine hours cleaning, entered a national writing competition, started a new job, finished Waning Moon, and probably gave myself caffeine poisoning at some point.
> 
> I’ve got a psych eval tomorrow as well so cheers to that (if you were thinking manic episode the answer is a hard ‘probably’). Anyway, I’m sure last chapter left you on tenterhooks, and rest assured, we have a bit more steam before the grand finale. This is a bit of a shorter one but I’ve been making an effort not to bloat the smaller chapters.
> 
> I’ll update next on the fourth I prommy (different way of saying I promise)

Chapter 18 - Samn Schorme

Tigre escapes and I can’t afford to chase him.

With _You’re nothing_ still ringing in my ears, it’s all I can do to keep myself rooted to the ground until I know I’m not going to take off after him the moment I start moving again. When I do, I hurry to Mauzian’s side.

Her pulse is steady, but her hand is… She’s still mostly-unconscious, eyelids fluttering and face twisted in a grimace of pain. She collapsed on top of her hand, and I have to believe the pressure stopped the bleeding, at least a little, or…

“Let me see it!” Sir Feur of Rivier shoulders through the crowd that clusters around Lady Fyrra, clutching their own wounds, and kneels at my side. “What happened to her?”

“They cut off her hand,” a voice that very much sounds like mine responds. Reality feels slightly further away, looking at the small flap of skin connecting Lady Fyrra’s blueing, severed hand to her wrist. _That’s the bone. Oh, blessed Starlaxi, that’s her bone._

Sir Feur peers at it for a moment, then unties the sash at his waist, slips it onto the ground, and tears a long strip from it. In his other hand, he cups his empty palm and with only a heartbeat of concentration, produces a small piece of long, thin stone, about the size and shape of the stem of a quill.

“What are you doing?”

Ignoring me, his brow furrowed, he loops the fabric strip under her forearm, still showering the earth with blood, and knots it overtop so she’s wearing a little bracelet made of his sash. He lays the piece of stone across it, then knots the fabric over the stone.

“What are you doing?” I repeat, feeling very suddenly useless and incompetent.

Taking each end of the stone in his fingers, he starts turning. And before my eyes, within a few rotations the blood slows to a trickle, then a drip, then nothing.

“A tourniquet,” Sir Feur grunts. “Get someone to hold that there, get her to a healer, and get the damned thing off before she loses half her arm too.”

“Duss,” I call, rising shakily. Sir Feur transfers it to Duss and Lady Peilte hurries over to help him carry Lady Fyrra to a horse. “A healer as well as a knight, Sir Feur?”

“We’re given first aid training in Rivier,” he answers evenly. It’s not a slight, not the way he says it, but… the same feeling of incompetence rises in me. _Would she have bled out?_

“Thank you, then,” I force myself to say and shake his hand. “Thank you for the second wind, though as you can see…”

“You had it under control.” His voice lightens for a moment, then his gaze slides to Graie, who is speaking with Fiyr. “Sir Sterrip heard commotion and insisted.”

“I’m glad.” And I am, even if every courtborn instinct is shouting at me to handle Thundria’s problems without the other kingdoms getting involved.

Sir Feur gives me a long look, then nods. “Right. We had better get back.”

“We’ll pay the debt,” I promise quietly a moment before he draws away. I see the understanding in his cool gaze; he may be pure Rivien, but he knows that an inequality like this hanging over our kingdoms could lead to trouble.

I stand alone as they disappear back into the bushes. Graie is the last to go, clasping his hand with Fiyr’s once more before he follows his court back to their territory. I don’t move until the leaves have stilled. I know the Thundrian patrols are watching too.

“Sir Peyelt, Lady Peilte, take Lady Fyrra back to the castle immediately!” I raise my raspy voice above the murmurs that have broken out throughout the clearing. Many curious glances are being directed Sir Terote’s way, but I don’t have time to deal with that this second. “Lady Faise, Sir Strommer, bring Sir Wynnd back to the castle for—for burial. The rest of you, go with them.”

I catch Fiyr’s arm as he steps toward the soulpath to cross it again.

“Wait.”

He shoots me a confused look when I don’t elaborate, but stands still as the other Thundrians filter out of the clearing. My mom helps Sir Strommer lay Sir Wynnd over the back of Marble and my heart clenches, staring at his slack face. _How did it all… Yesterday. I saw him yesterday. And now he’s dead._

Finally, Fiyr and I are alone. I turn to him, feeling the events of the last hour, last _minutes_ hit me with the force of a soul.

“Sir Wynnd’s dead, and so is Sir Terote,” I whisper. Fiyr’s face drains of what little colour it had to begin with. “And one of… one of Tigre’s men cut off Mauzian’s hand.”

He seems on the verge of enfolding me in his arms, but I turn too quickly and go to Sir Terote’s side, my knees buckling in more of a collapse than an intentional sitting movement.

Weith seems younger in death, eyes wide and stunned, mouth perpetually opened in a silent wail. _I didn’t!_

“What have I done?” I breathe, putting a hand on his gouged chest.

The moment before Fiyr speaks feels as though it stretches into an eternity. My sword cuts his wings, white as innocence, over and over again, white for mourning and red for the captain’s tunic—

“What happened to him?”

Fiyr kneels beside me and I can’t bring myself to look at him. Some part of me that’s not snapping into pieces answers, “He… I found Sir Wynnd, and then I looked up, and he was there and… It all happened so fast. He ran and I chased him and…”

He can figure out the rest based on the smattering of white shards digging into Weith’s skin.

“We have to bury him.” My fingers drift to his cheek, pebbled with adolescence. The place between boy and man that he’ll never grow out of, now. “On Shodawes territory.”

“Alright,” Fiyr says, and hooks his arms under Weith’s legs.

We carry him between us to Dune, then mount in silence and head for the trace-line. The ride won’t take more than an hour; we’re near enough to the solstice pavilion that the space between the two trace-lines is small. _And it means that Tigre and his mercenaries were in the heart of kingdom territory, and no one stopped them._

The forest seems a little less familiar; the birdsong sourer, the wind colder. _He’s here. He is still on our damn territory, because it’s been minutes, and he isn’t gone yet._ My captain voice roars to track him down and make sure he never hurts Mauzian, or Thorrin, or Fiyr, or Faern ever again. _But damn it, those instincts are what got Sir Terote killed._ My hands tremble on the reins. _I didn’t!_

“I saw Shodawes knights in Tigre’s group,” Fiyr says softly, a few minutes into our ride. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye like he’s gauging whether I’m in any state to make conversation. Or if I’m listening at all. Truthfully, I’m grateful for anything to focus on other Weith’s scream as my blade cut into—“I think they’re abandoning Shodawa to join him.”

“Things have gotten bad, there.” My own voice feels numb and alien. “Do you think I caused that by telling Cindra to stop treating Sir Terote and Sir Cleud?” _Do you think I caused this?_ I think, feeling Weith’s body behind me like a looming spectre. _Do you think I killed him? I held the sword. He was trying to get away. He just wanted to get away._

Fiyr huffs. “If you did, then I’m equally guilty. I was the one who thought they were the enemy that appeared to sleep.”

“You think it was Sir Cawle?”

Fiyr shakes his head. “I don’t know what I think.”

We’re both quiet for a moment. The usual drone of mosquitoes and cicadas seems to have quieted. Maybe in respect for the dead. My thoughts have just begun to drown me again when Fiyr says,

“Lucky that Graie showed up when he did.”

“Mm.”

He cocks his head at the flatness in my voice. I shake my head.

“I can’t think it’s a good thing that we’re indebted to Rivier now.”

“They didn’t do it to… to score points against us,” Fiyr points out. “Graie just wanted to help us.”

“King Crukkedaro won’t see it that way. If not him, Lady Fore will be coming to collect.”  
Fiyr wilts a little and I feel bad.

“Everyone else noticed,” I say, finding the need to justify it. “Mom, Sir Strommer, Duss… They know that this is putting us in a bad position.”

“They helped us,” Fiyr repeats, his voice softening. “Who else would we have been burying alongside Sir Wynnd if they didn’t show up when they did?”

_Who will we be burying when Lady Fore decides she is owed a strip of land for Rivier’s benevolence?_

There it is again. Debts. Owed spoils. _Neither Sir Cawle nor Lady Fore really believe in justice, do they?_ I remember his venomous words. _He’ll give me nothing but a bleeding forearm for my father’s death. He just wants whatever he can wring out of us. Cruelty, blood, fear. But he won’t get his hands on the crown._

We dismount at the trace-line. It’s an open stretch of field between two forests, dividing deciduous from pine. The late afternoon paints the long grass gold, the drone of the cicadas picking back up as we leave the cover of the trees. We carry Weith between us. I ignore the beads of blood that slick my palms as the corruption jutting out of his body grazes me.

“Should we dig him a grave…?” Fiyr asks, hesitating as he scuffs his boot into the hard-packed dirt.

I ease Weith onto the ground and then stand, shaking my head. “I don’t even know what they do in Shodawa for funeral rites. We’ll… let’s put him in the grass by the brook.”  
We carry him together to his final resting place. The quiet trickling of the water and the buzz of the cicadas combats the silence of death and as I flatten the grass to make room for his body, he could be mistaken for sleeping. The waxiness of his skin, the gruesome twist of his features is softened in the buttery light. I know the truth. _I didn’t!_

“Do you know the words?” Fiyr asks, his brow creasing in worry for Weith as we look down at the boy’s body.

“Yes.”

We stand in the field, listening to the brook in silence for a moment, then I speak.

“Blessed Starlaxi… Shodawa has lost one of their own.” I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m not a healer. But he’s not a Thundrian, and we’re not at the castle. Nothing is right, here. “Bring his spirit into your noble rank and allow him rest and safety. Weith Terote was killed when he fell onto a soulpath, running away from…” I swallow hard. “Running from an unjust accusation. He is gone but not forgotten and lives on in the memory of…” I don’t know his beloveds. I don’t know him at all, really. I press down the shaking feeling in my throat, and say, “of Lailtle Cleud, Cindra Plait, and many others that cannot be with us today. We recognize that you have chosen to take him from us now and though we will mourn his passing, we will rest in the knowledge that you will allow him to watch over those he loves from the stars.”

My voice fades like a dying candle and I bow my head. Fiyr does the same. We stay there in silence until the sunset sets, dying the world bloody-wing, captain-tunic scarlet.

And a few hours later, we hold the same vigil for Sir Wynnd.

Lady Eie and Sir Tyle cling to each other, frail and grieving as they stand by the stone plinth where their son rests. The air is thick with the smells of incense and rosemary that Lady Fennen and Cindra have begun burning. The daylight has drained away and the torches are burning down, leaving a caliginous cloud hanging over us, joining our sorrow.

Lady Fennen is the one to speak the words, this time. She fills in the parts I left out, names the mourners, and puts ‘in battle’ as his cause of death.

I watch numbly. I’m not sure how much of a battle there was. I look at Sir Wynnd’s cloth-covered body, Thorrin’s shell-shocked stare, and the entrance of the healer’s wing, where Cindra is dealing with Mauzian’s hand, and imagine Tigre’s outlaw horde descending on them. I imagine Sir Wynnd telling Thorrin to ride back to the castle and warn us.

_Did he want help, or was he just trying to save Thorrin’s life?_ I wonder. _If he hadn’t run, would he have ended up like Mauzian? Like Sir Wynnd?_

The queen stands at the head of the court, behind Lady Fennen who is presiding over Sir Wynnd’s body. The queen is swathed in the white of mourning like the rest of us, but she’s so pale from being indoors and sleepless that it only makes her look more washed out and ill. She did not react much when I told her what happened to Sir Wynnd and Lady Fyrra. She was also unsurprised and unbothered learn that Sir Feur administered first aid to Lady Fyrra, merely telling me that he was honourable and wouldn’t hold it over Thundria.

I’m still not sure I believe her.

Sir Feur aside—as far as I know, he’s as honourable and altruistic as she makes him out to be—I don’t put it past any of his more bellicose court members to seize the opportunity he’s granted us if he lets it slip that he saved Lady Fyrra’s life. _Did he? Would she have bled out? Surely not. It was minutes._ I try not think about it.

I stand with Fiyr, Clowd, and Faern at the queen’s right, a little ways from the plinth to allow his immediate family and Lady Fennen to stand closest. We’re silent through the ceremony. Lady Eie quietly relates a story of his demonstration when he was five years old. Sir Tyle cries and leans on his wife for support.

It feels like my legs have locked up when the torches finally die down and those that aren’t holding vigil filter off to their wings. I watch them go, feeling my previous plans die. I wanted to warn everyone to stay vigilant.

It’s a relief, in the strangest way. Sir Cawle _is_ back, he still wants to kill us, and he has his usual band. I’m not paranoid, I’m _right_. I’ve been preparing for the worst eventuality, and now those preparations won’t go to waste. I’ll focus the extra patrols where we encountered him and I’ll tell everyone to be on guard for any sign of activity with local mercenary bands. _And Shodawa, if Thorrin and Fiyr are to be believed._ The queen already isn’t leaving the castle much, but I won’t go out alone. And I’ll use training with Briatte to keep my own skills sharp. I remember the way the sandstone shattered the moment it hit the soulpath. How easily Sir Cawle dulled the points of my makeshift spears.

_More practice, definitely,_ I decide as the throne room empties save for Lady Eie, Sir Tyle, and Lady Peilte. Seeing their wan faces and tight expressions, I feel like I have more of a handle on the world if I keep my thoughts on training and patrols. Arithmetic, schedules, and pragmatism. They’ll seal up any place where too-sharp memories of Weith or finding Sir Wynnd or the way Mauzian fell—

“Samn?”

“Hm?”

Fiyr’s brow furrows in concern. “I was going to go to bed. Are you alright?”

_I just saw two people die,_ some very removed part of myself observes. I silence it. _Technically, I didn’t see Sir Wynnd die. He was dead when I got there._

“Right. I’m… I’m going to go make sure Lady Fyrra is alright, actually,” I say, deciding it as I speak. “And check on Cindra. I’ll join you in a bit.”

He nods, still looking worried. I force a smile.

The healer’s wing is mostly dark; the long windows show nothing but dark leaves and night sky, and Cindra’s only bothered to light the torches at Mauzian’s bedside, the one closest to the healers’ partition. Mauzian sits up, either conscious or just propped up on pillows.

I’m aware of how my footsteps echo in the silent wing as I cross toward them. Mauzian is awake, very pale and weary-looking, and Cindra moves around her. Mauzian’s right arm is elevated and tightly bandaged. Both Sir Feur’s tourniquet and Mauzian’s hand are missing. I faintly wonder what healers do with severed limbs. _Did they hold a vigil too?_

“Lady Fyrra,” I half-whisper as I approach her. It feels weird to break the peace of the wing. “How… how are you…?”

A spark flickers in her sharp hazel gaze as she studies me. “Not well. I’m down one hand, and the other can’t hold a quill steady.”

I look at the bandages, rounding the end of her arm. _Her dominant hand._ “I’m so sorry.”

Lady Fyrra huffs. Cindra is silent. Then Mauzian looks up at me, the traces of humour in her face leaking away. “You’ll pay him back for this, Samn.”

I swallow. _Another blood-debt._ Cindra presses her fingers to the inside of Mauzian’s uninjured wrist, utterly concentrated on her patient. _I can’t tell Cindra that she… that it was because…_ I look back at Mauzian and shake my head. “You can pay him back yourself.”  
She huffs another half-hearted laugh. “No. Not anymore, I can’t. You won’t put me in combat again, if you know what’s good for Thundria. You have to avenge my hand, Samn.” She quirks her lips like she’s joking, but her gaze is deadly serious. “Blood for blood.”

I’ve never been one to shy from conflict, certainly, but something about the combination of Weith, Sir Wynnd, her, Cindra… Mauzian holds my gaze. _But I will not let him go unpunished while he continues his warpath._

“Yes. He’ll pay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boogie woogie review review review it is my sustenance
> 
> ~Akila


	20. Chapter 19 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oo I like this one. I hope you like er too

Chapter 19 - Clowd

“Sir Cawle is back,” is how Samn starts. She’s in full captain mode; crisp red tunic, skin scrubbed of dirt from any recent training with Briatte, and voice stone-cold.

The court’s pretty quiet, all things considered. The queen, especially. Queen Bluelianna stands behind Samn, slumped in her throne for the first time I think I’ve ever seen. She’s not the type to lounge around while the action’s happening elsewhere, I guess. But Samn handles the announcement, waving her hand to silence the few whispers and continuing.

“He appears to be working with a band of mercenaries and Shodawes knights left over from the Broken King’s reign.”

If you ask me, the whole business of adopting new titles for deceased monarchs is a bit silly. _Who even decides what they call them?_ My eyes slide to Queen Bluelianna, still staring blankly ahead as Samn speaks. _I wonder what her new name will be once she kicks the bucket._

“It appears Sir Cawle wants revenge on Thundria,” Samn finishes, her eyes flitting to Cindra, who stands next to me. I’m not sure why. “We must be vigilant. I—we will increase patrols of the territory in the spot where the battle occurred. Squires will not be left alone for hunting assessments. I will post a permanent guard outside the castle’s doors, armed, in order to catch any attacks to us directly earlier. Lady Fuor, Thorrin, you’ll be on first guard. Sir Strommer, Clowd, you’ll be on second.”

_Castle guarding?_ I resist groaning as Samn’s sharp gaze fixes itself to me. _Boring._ Then I consider that Sir Cawle’s outlaws could be crawling the forest this very moment. _Well, maybe it’s better not to be out training right now._

Once we’re all dismissed, I hook my arm around Cindra’s as I’ve taken to doing lately. “Where to next, old buddy?”

After she said one thing about not letting me out of her sight, I made it my mission to make her eat her words. So far, she’s borne my quest to irritate her very well. Maybe she really doesn’t want to let me out of her sight.

Cindra looks at me wryly. “Healer’s wing. Lady Fennen needs a squire to scrub the floors.”

“She _always_ needs a squire to scrub the floors.”

“Mhmm. But I’m a full healer now, so congratulations. You’re promoted to floor-scrubber-numero-uno!” Cindra says and half-drags me to the wing. I turn to see if I can catch Faern’s eye and turn this into dramatics, but instead I spot Fiyr, pushing through the crowd, and following us into the healer’s wing.

Cindra looks over to see him too and something passes between them silently. Then Cindra pulls me along the back of the wing, in Cindra and Lady Fennen's private quarters.

“What does Fiyr want?”

“None of your beeswax,” Cindra mutters. As she stops and drops onto her bed heavily, I peek out from behind the partition and see Lady Fennen greeting Fiyr. They both look deathly serious.

“They look like they’re having…” I begin, turning back to Cindra. She’s staring at the wall. “What’s wrong?”

Her whole expression has sort of slackened like her happy mask fell off. _Damn. Was she upset and I didn’t notice?_ I examine her face as she turns to me, letting out a slow sigh. _Is she going to cry?_ “What’s wrong, Cindra?”

She looks back at the stone under our feet and shakes her head. “Sir Terote’s dead. I saw him… days ago.”

“Huh?”

“I was treating them.” She looks up at me again and I see that her eyes are gleaming with tears. “The sickness. I was treating them while they boarded in Sun Rocks, and… and Fiyr and Samn found out, and Samn wanted me to send them away with no explanation—she said it wasn’t safe, but it was—and… I didn’t. I kept treating them and now Sir Terote is dead.”

I fumble for something to say.

Cindra presses the heels of her palms to her eyes, then pulls them away, shaking her head again like she can clear away the memory. “Sir Cleud was going to ask Med Naos to take him on as a novitiate. But now I guess he’s seen the limits of healing. I treated them for a month, and it was for nothing.”

I remember Sir Cleud’s dull blue eyes. The limpness of his gestures, the despair in his voice, and tell Cindra, “Sir Cleud’s alive. You couldn’t have known that Sir Terote was going to… that _that_ would happen to him.”

Her hands scrunch the quilt at her sides, and she exhales. “Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to… fall apart on you like that. I forget how young you are sometimes.”

“S’okay.” I sit next to her and pat her shoulder like I’ve seen Fiyr do, and she snorts. “You know I’m not… not _really_ like, thirteen.” My body’s not, anyway. I guess I don’t know what it’s like to _think_ like a thirteen year old human.

“Well, if you’re never going to leave my sight, I guess you’re in it for the good and the bad.”

“You asked for this!” I protest.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Yeah. Well. If you need a shoulder to cry on, I’m here.”

I huff. I don’t cry much; not anymore, at least. I used to cry every time I yelled, I think. Being little feels so recent, but so… so far away, in a weird way. Like someone’s right next to me but every time I turn to look at them, they walk behind me.

Cindra and I sit for a minute in silence and I can’t help it; my ears open up and take in the sounds of the healer’s wing. Sounds like Fiyr and Lady Fennen’s private conversation.

“...ut anything about Sir Cawle?” Fiyr’s saying.

“Nothing,” Lady Fennen rasps.

“Not even… like, something from a long time ago?”

“I read the book cover-to-cover, boy. I know what is and isn’t in there.”

Fiyr’s silent for a moment, then says, “Alright. What do you think, though?”  
“I have told you. I don’t know.”

“If you had to guess.”

“The Starlaxi sends us trials and sends us the means to overcome them.”

I think I can imagine the face Fiyr’s making right now. _What a Shodawes thing to say. But what are they talking about…?_

“Are you eavesdropping?” Cindra whispers.

“No!”

She grins, then stands. “Alright, _old buddy_ , then I’m sure you won’t mind coming along with me to the dining hall.”

I groan but allow myself to be pulled off the bed. We walk through the healer’s wing and I’m aware of Lady Fennen’s gaze on me. The back of my neck prickles. I dart a glance at Fiyr, and sure enough, he’s got the little puckered, irritable face I expected.

…

The next time I leave the castle is the day after, for more combat training. Faern isn’t with us this time, nor Thorrin, nor Sewif. Fiyr’s got a certain set to his jaw that makes me wonder what I’m getting into.

A question which is answered quite promptly when we arrive at the sparring pen just outside Aurore.

“I’m going to teach you to fight in life or death situations,” Fiyr announces grimly, descending from Blitz and looping around the pen to fetch something from the attached shed. I couldn’t be so lucky as to get training rations to eat before we start swinging swords around, and sure enough, when he reappears, it isn’t with Lady Faise’s spiced jerky.

Instead, he sets down two large, padded dummies in the pen and beckons me over.

“What on earth are those?”

“Dummies,” he says.

I avoid rolling my eyes this soon into a training exercise, but it’s a near thing.

“Get out _Papercut_ ,” he orders.

I do.

“It’s against the knight’s code to kill someone in combat,” he begins. “But that’s mostly for conflicts between courts. In a situation where you’re fighting someone who won’t show you the same grace, you have my permission and the permission of the knight’s code to do whatever it takes to keep yourself alive, even if it comes to killing the other person.”

“But do I have Samn’s permission?” I snark, feeling a little rattled by the subject material.

Fiyr doesn’t take my bait. Maybe he can tell this is a bit of an upsetting training exercise. “Yeah, you have Samn’s permission. I want you to practice going for the throat, head, and gut on the dummy, okay? Same advances and backpedals. Just keep your strikes straight ahead.”

I put up _Papercut_ , feeling a weird tremble in my wrist that hasn’t been there before. And then I advance and stab the point through the dummy’s burlap belly.

“Again.”

I jab through the neck.

“Again.”

And the face.

_How would stabbing someone’s face even work? Could you actually cut through their nose?_ I examine my sword, grossly fascinated by the idea. _The bones are smaller there or something, right?_

“Again,” Fiyr says. There’s an edge in his voice I don’t recognize, but when I glance at him, he’s staring with total concentration at _Papercut_ and the movement of my arm.

So I obey, over and over again, hopping forward and back until I’ve worn grooves in the dirt and my fingers start to stiffen around the hilt. It’s hot as the Blacklands, which doesn’t help. Even though I don’t sweat easily, I feel a trickly droplet at my hairline and smudge it away with the back of my hand. _Gross._

Eventually, the stuffing of the dummy is bursting from the same three spots I’ve been digging _Papercut_ in repeatedly and I’ve worked up a proper sweat. _This is worse than smelling it on other people,_ I think, swiping away the dampness with the sleeve of my undershirt. I pulled off my tunic a while ago.

“Now with your magic,” Fiyr says, directing me to the other dummy. “Same places. You can exercise it more by making it disappear, too.”

That’s been a bit of an unspoken _thing_ in our ‘life-force’ training sessions. Fiyr focuses equally on making me disappear the corruption I create, almost as if the creating part is secondary.

“Are you ever going to let me _try_ to do something about the Creeping Corruption?” I ask as I extend my hands to start creating and destroying corruption within the dummy’s padding. It’s not hard to make corruption inside stuffing. Harder than air, which practically seems to be begging for something to inhabit it, but still. Putting it inside a deer’s head, for example, is more difficult. More gristle and blood involved.

“When you’re a knight,” Fiyr says, near-automatically.

I make a massive spike of corruption erupt from the dummy’s head, spearing the round sack on the tip of what looks like a giant, sparkling cone-hat. The rough fabric rips as the dummy’s beheaded. Then I flick my wrist and shrink it down to a sparkling glint, which then vanishes.

The dummy’s head tumbles to the earth.

“That doesn’t change my mind,” Fiyr mutters.

And I guess it shouldn’t, because for some reason, that was much harder to do than I expected. I frown at my hands like it’s their fault; they’re tingling a little, but that’s not out of the ordinary for my magic. Maybe it’s the sweat that glimmers in the creases of my palms, or the glare of the sun overhead, but… I feel like it’s too hot. Like… unnaturally hot out here.

“Why is this summer so hot?” I mop the back of my neck with the soaked sleeve. This is going directly in the laundry, and hopefully it won’t be me dealing with it after that.

I expect Fiyr to brush it off, but he looks up at the sky, shielding his eyes with one pale hand. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

We keep training. I keep forcing my magic to stab through the dummy’s neck, gut, and beheaded-stuffing-bag. It almost seems like it’s getting _harder_ as the sun travels to directly overhead, but I know that’s ridiculous. Maybe it’s something about contemplating using all this training on a cutthroat mercenary bent on cutting me to ribbons. That’s not really creating the ideal environment to summon my magic.

“Let’s stop,” Fiyr finally sighs. “You’re doing fine. You’ll protect yourself, won’t you?”

“Of course.” I feel almost defensive that he even has to ask, but his steady green gaze makes me relax a little.

“Just worried about you,” he says, and turns to leave the pen. “Come on. Let’s hit Aurore’s pumps before we go back.”

We return to the castle, thoroughly doused in ice-cold water that has warmed up to sticky air-temperature by the time we walk through the doors. Faern and her mentor have been stuck with door-duty and look just as miserable in the sun as we were. I hold my breath as I pass and wave to my sister.

She eyes my soaked shirt enviously.

“I’ll bring you some from the pump,” I promise.

“It’ll be warm,” Faern groans.

_Whiner,_ I think, wringing out my shirt before I cross onto the stone of the castle. _I’ll bring her some anyway._

Fiyr stops me as I’m peeling away from his side to go find Faern’s basin in her nook. “Are you alright, Clowd?”

“Of course.” Defensive again. _He’s not trying to catch you for anything. He just wants to know,_ I remind myself. “I mean… yeah.”

He nods. “I know this stuff isn’t easy to… to think about, or practice.”

_No, I actually love thinking about Sir Cawle coming to kill me and everybody I know and how absolutely unprepared I would be to deal with that._ I just repeat, “Yeah.”

“You’ll be alright,” he promises, and I nod even though I don’t believe him. “And this summer isn’t going to last forever. Go wash.”

I get Faern her basin of lukewarm water first, and as predicted, she is unenthusiastically thankful in splashing her face with it. Sir Fere also look envious, but I’m drawing the line at looking out for anyone other than my family. He can get his own warm water.

Just as I’m about to head back into the castle, I peer up at the sky, shading my eyes the same way Fiyr did. _Why’s it so hot? If the Starlaxi can control the weather, can’t they toss me a cloud or something? Then again, with a name like this, I should be able to do it myself._

Which brings a prick of bitterness, but I remind myself, _I’ll handle the Creeping Corruption once I’m a knight. That should be enough to basically go down in the history books as Thundria’s saviour, half-godness and all._

_And until then, I’ll… practice killing dummies so that one day Sir Cawle can obliterate me in battle,_ I think. _That’ll be really useful to Thundria._

I find the prospect of a quiet afternoon alone in the squire’s wing unappealing, all of a sudden, and turn my feet toward the healer’s wing. _Well, even if I don’t want to cry, I’m sure Cindra will be pleased to spend some time with her old buddy._

She’s rewrapping Lady Fyrra’s wrist when I walk in and I nearly do a full turn to walk straight back out. Cindra spots me too fast, though.

“Hey, Clowd. Just a sec.” And as if it’s the most normal thing, she holds the bandage tight across Lady Fyrra’s wrist, then pins it with the other hand. When Lady Fyrra thanks her quietly and returns the bandaged limb to her lap, Cindra turns. “What’s up?”

I can’t look away from Lady Fyrra for a moment, then clear my throat and say, “Uh… can we talk?”

She cocks her head, then motions to the partition like _Lead the way._ I sit on the chair at her desk as she takes a seat on the bed and try to collect my thoughts. _I probably shouldn’t have led with ‘Can we talk,’ that makes it seem like there’s something wrong. I mean…_ There’s a weird feeling in my stomach, like sweat on the inside of my body. _But that’s not, like, medically serious, right?_

“It’s… why is it so hot?” I finally ask lamely.

“Huh?”

“I dunno. Did the Starlaxi tell you why?” I fidget in her chair. She’s been the only person who has _no_ idea what I think of the Starlaxi, I’m pretty sure. Unless Fiyr or Faern spilled the beans. _Would she get angry at me?_ She usually doesn’t get angry. Just quiet or snippy.

She furrows her brow and quirks her lips at me like I’m being silly. “What? Of course not. They don’t come down and tell me why I burned my tongue on my tea. They’re… busy.”

_Busy with_ what? _Aren’t they dead?_ I wonder, and keep the thoughts to myself. “Oookay.”

“What’s your problem with the heat?”

“It sucks.”  
“Well, good talk,” she says, standing and brushing off her apron like she’s getting ready to usher me outdoors.

“Wait,” I blurt.

She waits.

“I—Fiyr taught me how to fight in life or death situations,” I explain in a rush. Cindra takes it in, then sits again. “It was… I don’t know. It was weird. I didn’t like it.”

“No.” She nods. “It’s not fun.”

I chew on the inside of my lip. She nods again, something passing across her expression.

“If it’s any help… you’re worth more than the person trying to kill you,” she offers with a humourless laugh. “That’s what… that’s what animals, people, gods, whatever, are made to do, you know? Survive. So if some asshole tries to put you in the ground, then get the hit in first. When you get to that point, just think about keeping yourself alive. Nothing else.”

I let my lip free from between my teeth and start fiddling with my hands instead. Neither seem to get out the weird, fizzing energy from inside me. _Maybe it’s the heat._ “Yeah. It’s just… just weird to be told to break the knight’s code.”

“Yeah. I get it.” Her gaze wanders to the ceiling, then she clears her throat. “I had to save my life a couple times. Br—the Broken King, Sir Cawle, both tried to kill me. And Sir Fiace—an old Shodawes knight, if he could be called a knight—kidnapped me and Brakken when we were just little kids, and… it doesn’t fade. That kind of thing.” She looks at me and shrugs. “Sorry. Don’t mean to get all… serious on you. But really. You’re trained, you want to survive, and you can trust your body to work with you when it’s important.”

I nod.

“Okay. Uh… don’t think too much about this stuff, okay? I was an anomaly.” She laughs again humourlessly. “Most people don’t get the two-murder-attempts-and-a-kidnapping mix. One murder attempt at most.”

It’s not really funny, but I laugh anyway. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“We all will,” she says and helps me up from the desk. “Ew. Why are you so wet?”

“It’s _hot_ ,” I exclaim.

She sticks out her tongue. “Alright. Get lost before I get you started on scrubbing the floors.”

I wander back out to see Faern and Sir Fere. The whole court seems sluggish in the heat; Faern and I aren’t the only ones who soaked our clothes in water to try to stay cold. I see knights joking about it, ladies fanning themselves and each other, and Sewif and Thorrin just taking off their shirts, undershirt and all, but something’s stopping me from feeling in on the joke.

Call it the god senses, but it feels like something’s coming—something really bad. I don’t know if it’s because of the heat, or because of the life-or-death training, or Cindra confessing that she was treating the Shodawes knights, or the queen’s state… but I have the worst feeling.

I’m still tossing and turning as I fall asleep that night. I keep having the urge to get up and check on Faern, or Samn and Fiyr, or Lady Faise, like something terrible is going to happen to them while I’m sleeping.

After stalking around my room, trying and failing to tire myself out, I leave the squire’s wing and slip out of the back entrance to the castle through the castle. The night somehow feels even hotter, and dry against my face like it’s sucking out even cooling sweat.

I look up at the stars. The full moon, hanging placidly, totally ignoring the squirming feeling of _wrong_ in my stomach.

_Alright, Starlaxi,_ I think. _You can hear my thoughts, right? That’s not a stretch. I’m not speaking aloud. If you are real, and if you can control stuff that happens to us, please, please don’t let anything bad happen to Thundria. Not tonight, at least. I mean, if you’re all-powerful, you should be able to stop bad things from ever happening, but especially tonight. Please tell me this feeling is nothing._

The breeze keeps rustling the leaves. Crickets chirp distantly on the forest floor. The stars are silent. I sigh and turn around, padding silently back into the squire’s wing, and lie on top of the sheets, feeling sticky and sweaty. Sleep comes fitfully.

When I wake up, my room is filled with smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go lads
> 
> ~Akila


	21. Chapter 20 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy everyone!!

Chapter 20 - Clowd

I barely have time to register the thick black fumes filling my room and the muffled shouts from outside the squire’s wing when Faern bursts through my curtain, holding her hand over her mouth, and tosses a wet rag at me.

“Cover your mouth with this!” she shouts, and I see that she’s got one over her own face.

I fumble, already starting to cough on the smoke, and slap the wet cloth over my mouth. “What’s—what’s happening?”

“Forest fire,” Faern says, yanking my curtain open wide. Her voice is remarkably controlled. “Let’s go, let’s go. Take your stuff and help us pack, we need to evacuate the castle.”

I scramble out of bed, yanking open my dressers. _Shit, shit, what? What do I take?_ I grab a uniform, the books on my nightstand, and try to bundle them up in my arms. _The library! It’s going to burn again!_ “Where’s the fire?” I choke to Faern.

“It’s coming,” she says and ducks out of my room.

Dread fills me and I stand for a moment, just staring at where Faern’s disappeared. _I asked them protect us! Where are the Starlaxi’s miracles now?!_

I shove everything under my arm and then run out of the squire’s wing. Thorrin, Briatte, Sewif, and Faern are all gathering their stuff and hurrying after me. Books spill from Faern’s arms like she tried to gather up the whole Thundrian library to bring with her. Sewif’s clutching a faded stuffed bear.

The throne room is half-organized chaos. _Where’s Lady Faise?_ I stumble back to avoid getting trampled by Sir Strommer and Lady Peilte carrying boxes of food between them out the doors, holding tight to the rag over my mouth. Lady Faise is nowhere to be found. Neither is Lady Tiall, Lady Flourer, or any of Lady Peilte’s kids. _The ladies went first,_ I think, cold fingers of terror sliding down my back. _Are we going to die if we stay in the castle?_

Other than the smoke pouring in the open doors, I haven’t seen a lick of flames. _When’s the fire going to get to us?_

“Clowd!” It’s Fiyr, shouting at me from across the room at Samn and Lady Fennen’s side.

I shove through the crowd toward him, finding my steps suddenly unsteady. Panic is making my whole body thrum.

“What can I do to help?” I demand, words muffled by the wet fabric on my mouth. _Can I take it off? Will I die if I breathe in the smoke?_

Samn tells Lady Fennen something, and then turns on her heel and practically dashes into the queen’s private chambers. Fiyr watches her go for a moment, then turns back to me. “The children are out, the food is out… Round up the squires and ride to Sun Rocks. The fire is in the east forests, near Shodawa. It’s spread, based on Sir Peyelt’s reports, but—” The words spill out like he’s not considering them before speaking, then he blinks like he’s just noticing who I am. He shakes his head. “Never mind all that. We’re meeting at Sun Rocks, and once everyone is safe we’ll figure out how to put this out.”

I stare at him for a moment, breathing in the particular smell of his magic, then turn around. _It’s just like the Creeping Corruption. Could he stop the fire? If he used his life-force to extinguish it?_ How big is the fire? I don’t think we’ve ever had one. Not that I’ve known of. _Am I going to die?_

The squires are still sort of standing dumbly near the castle entrance. I thread through the knights and ladies still in the castle that run around carrying essentials.

“We’re going now,” I tell them through the rag. “Going to Sun Rocks. Let’s go.”

“Where’s my dad?” Sewif demands.

_What did Fiyr say about the elders?_ “I have no idea, but we have to go now. The fire’s spreading,” I snap, in no mood for Sewif’s contrarianism.

Briatte takes his hand and murmurs something to him. I spin around and race out the doors, half-expecting the Blessed leaves beneath my feet to be crumbling, black and charred. Even the air outside is smokey. As I round the side of the castle…

A wall of fire is spreading over the forest in the distance. The bright orange cuts through the haze that has settled over the treetops. I’m frozen for a moment, just staring at the sheer destruction. _What the fuck do we do when it gets to the castle?_ But we’ll all be in Sun Rocks, won’t we? Safe by the water while our home burns. _How are we going to rebuild? Is the queen going to use her last Blessing to make us a new castle?_

I breathe deeply through the cloth and then follow Sewif and Thorrin as they overtake me toward the stables. _Sir Fluffyhooves will be safe, at least,_ I think as I open his stall door and lead him out. He’s huffing and kicking the ground, probably irritated by the smoke. _We’re going to get far away from it now, buddy._

Without checking to make sure the other squires are at my back, I mount and near-gallop to the break in the leaves. Sewif overtakes me quickly, riding almost crouched on his saddle with his face pressed to the side of his horse’s, shooting beneath the grasping trees at the edge of the path. As we ride, the rest of the court catches up. The ladies and children have gone ahead, but I see Lady Eie, the queen, Lady Tayel, Sir Fere, all thundering down the path at ours backs with far too much loading down their saddlebags and clutched in their arms. I slow Sir Fluffyhooves a fraction, dropping back behind the patrol to take stock of everyone.

“Where’s my dad?” I hear Sewif shout again.

“They stayed behind to save the books,” Lady Eie calls to him, voice crackly from age and the smoke. I don’t see Sewif’s reaction to that.

_Lady Faise went on ahead. Faern’s up with Thorrin and Briatte, Fiyr and Samn are together by the queen, Cindra is—_

Where is Cindra?

I don’t realize I’ve shouted it until Fiyr cranes his head back to see me. He scans the patrol and his face pales more when he notices the same thing I have. Neither Lady Fennen nor Cindra are with the patrol.

“I’m going back!” I yell and wheel Sir Fluffyhooves around.

Then before Fiyr can order me to stop, I gallop the path in the direction of the billowing plumes of smoke that our patrol has kicked up. I press myself to Sir Fluffyhooves’s neck, rising off the saddle and urging him on yet-faster.

As the smoke stings my eyes and my whole body throbs with protest to the bounce of the horse’s speed, I’m faintly reminded of my disastrous attempt to take the soulpath with my father. _I have to get to Cindra before the forest reaches the castle. I have to save her. Why isn’t she coming? Where’s Lady Fennen?_

The ride feels agonizingly long, giving me time to spiral until all I know is the blur of my stinging eyes, the choking feeling of my lungs, and the pattern of thoughts that repeats, _She can’t die. She can’t die._

I hear the fire before I see it. It’s a raging storm of crackling, whooshing, and snapping, almost deafening when mixed with the wind rushing across my ears. I nearly don’t register I’ve reached the base of the castle when I burst into the clearing.

The heat is unbearable.

I howl as the blistering air bites into my skin, feeling like I’m about to shrivel up to a crisp. Sir Fluffyhooves screams too, wailing with pain as his skin is scorched by the fire. Then we vanish into the Blessing, spat out atop the smouldering treetops.

A blazing line of death has reached the castle, reaching out with long orange fingers to blacken the wooden supports of the pillars, wreaking havoc on the walls and toppling the turrets. I dismount Sir Fluffyhooves, needing to spare at least one of us from the sweeping wave of heat that continues to rake across my skin. I wail, feeling tears collect and then dry on my cheeks, and sprint toward the doors of the castle, deeper into the flames.

The cinnamon-iron smell of fire is so strong my nose runs, the liquid stinging the raw skin above my lip.

“Cindra!” I scream as I jump over the burning wreckage of the door into two leaping strides. “Cindra?!”

The castle is in ruins. The stairs up the knights’ wing have collapsed in on themselves, blocking all access to the second floor. The fire hit the castle on the side of the elders’ quarters, the nursery, and the kitchen; the healer’s wing and the dining hall are the only rooms that aren’t actively engulfed. I rush through the doors.

“Cindra!”

“Clowd?!” She’s at one end of the healer’s wing, standing in front of the door to the supply room. Or where the door should be; the roof is leaning inwards like it’s being pressed down by a giant boot, leaving rubble blocking the entrance to the supply room. Her voice teeters on hysterical as she exclaims, “Get out! You’re going to be burned!”

“What about you?” I demand, running over to her like I can carry her out.

She’s mostly unscathed, though streaked with ash and ragged-voiced. She gives me a desperate look. “My life-force—I can’t be burned. But I have to get Lady Fennen out.”

Then she reaches out and wedges her hands between the rocks and yanks, grunting with the effort.

_Oh, no. Lady Fennen’s in there…_ I freeze for a second, just staring at the pile of fallen bricks and stone piled in front of the door. It only takes a moment to know, _She won’t be able to move that._

The roof groans and I backpedal on instinct. Cindra stays put, still furiously hauling the rock the size of her torso to one side. It’s one of dozens.

“Cindra, you can’t,” I say, trying not to whimper at the burning of my skin. It’s agonizing, worse than I could’ve imagine, like I’m locked in a furnace. “You have to go. It’s—it _hurts_.”

She turns to me, wild-eyed. “Clowd, _go!_ You’re going to die if you stay.”

“So will you!” I shout, everything in me straining to run out the door of the healer’s wing before it gets consumed by the flame. _I’m not leaving this castle without her._ “The roof is unstable, Cindra! Your life-force can’t protect you from the heat forever. We have to go, now!”

“But Lady Fennen is stuck!” Cindra sobs, attacking the stone blockade with more force. It’s useless, I know it is, but Cindra’s face is contorted with concentration and grief. “ _She’ll_ die in there!”

I shake my head, feeling a cry build in my throat. “We have to go. We can’t help her.”

“I have to try!”

“Cindra, you told me—you told me we were made to survive.” My voice is too ragged, trembling for me to get the words out in any coherent fashion over the roar of the fire in the throne room. I can see the orange in the entrance of the healer’s wing, ready to tear through the rows of cots and shelves of medicine they weren’t able to collect with eternally hungry jaws. _Last chance._ “Just think about staying alive! Nothing else.” _I don’t know if the Starlaxi, or anyone, is listening, but please, please, I have to get her out._

She turns back to me. Her palms are streaked in blood, nails broken from trying to claw apart stone. “What about Lady Fennen?”

I bite my tongue to drown the sob. _If she dies now, will she be gone forever?_ “We have to let her go.”

“I can’t.”

“You’ll die.”

“Then I will.” Her face turns to stone and she returns to grabbing at the rocks. Her strength in waning, I can feel it. Heat scorches my back. The fire advances. Her robes are blackened, hanging off her in charged lengths. For a moment, she seems infinitely breakable to me. How long do we have before the roof collapses and she’s buried like the door to the supply room? How long do I have before the skin melts off my bones? _I’m not going without her._

“Okay, then I’ll stay too.”

“No, Clowd, run! I don’t want you to die here.”

“And I don’t want _you_ to die here!” I plead with her. “Come with me.”

Her arms slacken on the rocks, then slip off and hang at her side. She turns, framed against the immovable rock that walls off her mentor, and closes her eyes, tears running clear tracks down her ash-streaked cheeks.

I reach out my raw, red hand to her, and she takes it.

A black and orange mouth of flame has bitten down the doorway, so I turn my gaze to the side of the wing. The windows show the sky, bruised-apple red and choked with smoke like the entire world is being swallowed up by this fiery death. My corruption glitters like stars as it smashes through the window. I half-grab Cindra around her waist and run with her to the windows, standing on one of the cots and reaching over the shards of glass. Blood dribbles in rivulets down her forearms as she thrusts her arms over the ragged edge of the window, and I help push her up over the top.

Then I look back at my burning home one last time, and jump out the window.

Cindra and I run together, stumbling over the leaves, back around the castle. Sir Fluffyhooves is gone. The stables are burning.

“Ashes!” Cindra shrieks and sprints into them before I can stop her. I freeze, waiting to see if she reappears. Heat sweeps me in waves and I can already feel my skin start to crack and bleed.

_Lady Fennen,_ I think as she returns, racing next to the horse. _Is there a chance she might make it out? Could we have saved her if…_ Cindra’s voice repeats firmly in my head. _When you get to that point, just think about keeping yourself alive. Nothing else._

The three of us plunge through the trees, pain and magic mingling in my mouth, and I hop up behind Cindra on Ashes, entire body thrumming with agony. The horse ride doesn’t help. We fly through the forest with fire at our heels, Cindra utterly focused on the path ahead and me tracking the progress of the flames hounding us.

Even as the roar of fire grows closer with every passing second, I hear Cindra crying. I can’t do much more than press my chest to her back, biting the scream of pain in my chest. The burning feels like it’s inside me now, boiling my blood and turning my insides to melted mush. I glance wildly back as briefly as I can, and even that small look is enough to know… _We’re about to be engulfed._

And then suddenly, like a wave of reinforcements blasting back the enemy’s line, the fire seems to get… caught. It surges forward to grasp us, turn us to ash, and then freezes, almost suspended mid-air.

“Clowd! Cindra!” It’s Fiyr, ahead of us on the path and yanking Blitz to a halt. “I’m so glad you’re safe! Where’s Lady Fennen?” The fire is swept back further, as though Fiyr is emanating some kind of protective wave of extinguishing.

I just shake my head at him as Cindra hunches over more, letting out a low moan of sorrow.

“No…” Fiyr is wordless for a moment, then he lowers his head. “She did so much for all of us. We’ll hold a vigil as soon as everyone’s safe. We have to get to Sun Rocks, Clowd… are you… okay?” He looks horror-stricken, taking in the red mottling of my skin.

All I can do is nod, and Cindra puts Ashes into motion, silent. I can still feel her ribs moving as she cries noiselessly and I close my eyes, feeling tears of my own slip down my cheeks. _We couldn’t save her. I saw the rubble myself. It was too late._

Fiyr pulls up behind us as if to make sure we don’t fall back. I stare back at him, even as it makes my neck burn and ache. Sweat glistens on his cheeks, slipping in streams down each temple, but his eyes are aglow as if he’s been waiting his whole life to come alive like this, lit from within by the power that ripples off his skin. The fire’s line is pushed back further, far enough that we’re able to make the ride without it biting at our heels.

We make it to Sun Rocks. The whole court is scattered through the town square, holding tightly to the reins of horses and crouching on the cobblestone, exhausted. Everyone’s safe; everyone but Lady Fennen, and…

“Where’s my dad?” Sewif races up to Cindra and me, skidding to halt and looking terribly small.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, Sewif.”

His face crumples, fury and distress clashing hard, and he gets so close to me I can feel his breath. It’s cold on my skin. “Why didn’t you save him too? What the fuck did you go back for, if not to save them?” His voice breaks.

Briatte emerges from the crowd, hair in a disarray and face shiny with tears, and takes Sewif’s arm, guiding him away from me. I turn to Cindra. She shakes her head.

“They were still in the elder’s wing, and I thought… I thought they were going to go, but…” Her voice fails her and I shake my head, not needing to hear the end.

We wait. Neither Sir Peld nor Sir Tyle return and the sunset begins to paint the smokey sky golden. When a new kingdom-smell finally drifts into the now-silent town square, I’m startled. _That’s not…_

“Graie?” Fiyr rasps.

Graie Sterrip, shoulder to shoulder with four more Rivien knights stops dead when he sees us. “What… the fuck is going on?”

I nearly collapse with relief at the sight of them, staring over our huddled masses with utter bafflement. Samn, Sir Strommer, and Lady Faise all instinctively draw closer to each other, suspicious, but the queen seems as delighted as I am by their arrival.

“The fire, we saw it… over the trees…” Sir Feur, next to Graie, says slowly, eyes roving over us and widening with each terrified face he takes in. “Your castle…?”

“Gone,” I say before I can think better of it.

Sir Feur is at a loss. Graie repeats, “Gone?”

“We have nowhere to go,” the queen says, stepping out of the crowd of us, eyes trained on Graie and Sir Feur. “We will have to wait out the fire.”

Graie murmurs something to Sir Feur, then raises his gaze to the queen. “We can shelter Thundria.”

One of the women on his patrol opens her mouth to object, and gets a swift jab in the ribs by another shorter woman.

“You can stay with us on the Summer Isles until the fire is finished,” Graie says with an air of finality. I wonder how much things have changed in the past three years that he’s making such decisions. “King Crukkedaro will allow it and… Lady Fore will manage.”

“Truly?” The queen’s eyes widen, no hint of suspicion colouring her gaze. The same cannot be said of Samn, who crosses her arms.

“An ambush?”

“Of course not,” Graie exclaims, gaze travelling over her shoulder to land on Lady Peilte and her three children. “We— _I_ want to help you.”

“Thank you,” the queen says before Samn can speak again and takes Graie’s offered hand. I shiver.

“We’ll have to take you in small groups,” he says, turning to Sir Feur as if to consult him.

“Women and children first,” the older knight says, “then we’ll come back with more boats for the rest of you.”

I stay with Cindra, huddling on the ground, as the Riviens leave with the boat. We watch Sarola, Rhane, Siotos, Speikall’s two unnamed sons, and Lady Peilte disappear onto the horizon. Lady Tiall herself insists on staying behind in case Sir Peld returns in the meantime.

He doesn’t.

The sun lowers the world into darkness as we wait, and eventually, are greeted by the glow of lanterns from a collection of boats at the water’s edge. The whole court of Thundria files down to cliffs, then onto the beach. Queen Bluelianna stays for a moment, watching everyone get into the boats with Riviens at each stern, then turns and looks at something at the base of the cliffs. She turns around and gets into a boat next to Sir Strommer and Lady Faise, steered by Sir Feur of Rivier.

Sewif stays with Lady Tiall as Thorrin, Briatte, Faern, Cindra, and I pile into one of the larger boats.

The lanterns float like second, third, and fourth moons on the water’s surface as with a _whoosh_ , we’re pushed off of beach. I lean into Cindra, shutting my eyes tightly to the pain of her arm scraping over my sensitive skin when she puts her arm around me. The cold air on the water’s surface is welcome, soothing the burns. My skin feels like it has contracted around me, squeezing my insides.

I look back one last time, away from the blue darkness of the Rivien sea that swallows up the world in front of us, and back at our home, engulfed and in ruins. Then I hold on tighter to Cindra and wait for us to reach Rivier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A littol sizzle in this one. Hoow do we think of it
> 
> ~Akila


	22. Chapter 21 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy valentine’s day! enjoy!

Chapter 21 - Samn Schorme

Lady Fore is not inclined to ‘manage.’

The queen insists on staying with Sir Feur as he helps the court settle into the many tents and settlements on the lush island. Their prosperity makes me despair; Thundria will be feeling the effects of this fire for years to come and it take a great deal of blood and sweat to return us to this level of function. Especially with Queen Bluelianna where she is. _I’ll make up for it,_ I think as I watch the court slowly begin to mingle with the Riviens that are awake to witness us take refuge. _I’ll shoulder all the burdens._

Which is how I find myself in King Crukkedaro’s tent being yelled at by a woman a decade and a half my senior.

“You cannot come begging at the hand of Rivier for every mistake you make!” she hisses, stalking across the tent and whipping around to stare at me furiously again. I stand still, waiting out the storm. “Sir Calew’s death is not forgotten! You have taken and taken from us, and again you ask for shelter and kindness!”

_Graie offered it,_ I think, and keep that thought to myself. I’m getting the impression she’s looking for any excuse to blame this on Graie.

“Sir Sterrip was bad enough!” she continues.

_There it is._

“You took _his daughter_ ,” Leaparra spits and King Crukkedaro, slumped over his throne and staring at the earth, flinches. “Our generosity is not bottomless.”

_We didn’t_ take _her. And if it were up to you, your generosity would be non-existent._ “Just until the fire burns itself out.” I keep my voice as steady as I possibly can, and Lady Fore somehow seems more incensed by it.

“When will it end?!” she snaps, spinning around again.

Something comes untethered within me and I step toward her, lowering my voice so the king doesn’t hear me, and grab her shoulder, firmly enough to keep her still. “It ends here, Lady Fore. Thundria will not encroach on Rivier any further if you shelter us now.”

She stops moving, at least, at my change in tone and sudden contact, but almost seems to be arranging her face in scorn as she says, “Why?”

_The queen cannot save us._

“Because under _my_ Thundria, we will stand alone,” I say. “When I am Thundria’s monarch, there will be no favours asked. Nor owed. Do we understand each other?”

Something in Leaparra’s expression changes. It takes me a minute to identify the glimmer in her intense, dark eyes. “We do. This is Rivier’s last favour.”

“Good.” I step back. King Crukkedaro is still catatonic. Leaparra’s gaze is heavy as she trains it on me. I retreat to the entrance of the tent, unable to stop myself from savouring the look for an instant. _Respect. Finally._ Then I duck out of the tent, into the night, and return to my court.

I don’t want to _be_ her; I’ve seen her callousness and the way she puts Rivier above all at the sacrifice of everyone’s well-being, but still. If I’m to fill the hole Sir Cawle left in his treachery, earning the neutrality, at least, of someone like Lady Fore is a good start.

Cindra and Med Frer wind through the court, treating burns. I find Cindra as she’s placing spoonfuls of honey in the mouths of all-too-eager Rhane, Siotos, and Sarola. She kneels to give one to Rhane, and I stand awkwardly, with nothing at all to say to her.

When she stands and looks at me, I’m somehow more helpless. I register that she smells very strongly of fennel. _No, not fennel. Licorice root._ I peer at her as she returns my stare, expressionless.

“What can I help you with, Lady Schorme? Were you burnt?” Her voice has an edge of exhaustion. I’m sure it’s not just from walking around and administering first aid.

“I’m sorry to hear the news of Lady Fennen,” I finally say.

She dips her head.

I squeeze my hands into fists, begging my mind to come up with something meaningful and useful to say, and… there’s nothing. “I’m just so sorry. We’ll all miss her.”

“Yes,” Cindra says. “We’ll hold the vigil tomorrow.”

“Er, right.”

I look at her a moment longer, her ragged healer’s robes and bloodshot eyes, and reflect on my confrontation with Lady Fore. _It’s us, now_ , I think. _Queen Bluelianna is too far gone. Lady Fennen is almost certainly dead. Lady Plait is our healer, and I… I’m Thundria’s leader, if not queen. Not yet. We’ll be enough. We have to be._

Then I nod and turn away to go find some way to make myself useful.

Even as I’m helping everyone unpack what they managed to salvage, organizing shelters and promising Lady Tiall and Sewif that Sir Peld will have a vigil, I can’t help my gaze slipping toward the burning orange on the horizon. It’s dying down; it _has_ to be, yet…

_Solo el fuego salvará nuestro reino._

As I stand in the midst of my court, feeling more alone than I do in solitude, I stare at the ruins of our home and wonder for the first time, _Could the queen be right? Is the Starlaxi angry with us? If our saviour is destroying us, then who will save us?_

But I know the answer. I’ve always known the answer.

…

The next day, the court is whispering. No one is happy to be breaking their fasts at the elbows of enemies, which is most apparent in Darriek’s temper, running higher than usual.

“It was chaos,” he snaps.

I’m sitting at the main table of Rivier’s outdoor eating area with Lady Fore and King Crukkedaro in stiff silence. Queen Bluelianna has not appeared from her sleeping tent. Darriek sits with Duss, Cindra, Liang, and Sewif at the table to our right and I try to tune them out as best I can.

“She’s incompetent! At least we’d have strong leadership if—” Darriek cuts himself off and makes a disgusted noise. I concentrate on the grilled fish on my plate and will Lady Fore and King Crukkedaro not to hear them. “Lady Fennen, Sir Peld, and Sir Tyle almost certainly dead. Because of what, her disorganization? If anyone should be exiled—”

“Shut your damned mouth.” It’s Duss, sounding on the edge of violence if I know him. “ _Shut your damned mouth_ , Darriek. She’s the only reason we got out there with half of the supplies we did. Sir Tyle, Lady Fennen, and your father, Sewif, they were _tragedies_ and they were _not_ her fault. If you...”

“Lady Fennen went back into the supply room of her own accord.” Cindra’s voice is so soft that I wouldn’t hear it were I not straining to catch the conversation at this point.

“She was choosing to die, is that it?” Darriek’s sarcasm is caustic. Fury boils in me on Cindra’s behalf, but Duss gets there again before I can put Darriek’s face through one of the wooden tables we’re seated at.

“This is your last warning. You disgrace Lady Fennen’s memory.” Duss has moved from anger to fury as cold as ice. “And in front of Sewif. Leave, Darriek, until you can comport yourself in public.”

A strange tension unravels in my stomach as I see Darriek shove himself back from the table and storm off out of the corner of my eye. In the ensuing moment of peace in my soul, I faintly think, _Duss’d make a good dad._

I poke my fish again, take a deep breath, and turn to Lady Fore. “Excuse me. I need to be with my court, right now.”

I know Duss and Darriek’s altercation hasn’t gone unnoticed as she tilts her head a fraction and then nods. “I see.”

I keep my eyes trained on her a moment longer, searching for that gleam of respect. Nothing but silent acknowledgement; at least it’s not scorn. I’ll take it. Then I push myself back from the table and slide myself onto the bench that Darriek left empty.

Cindra is pale, Duss’s jaw is still wound tight to snapping, and Sewif and Liang wear matching expressions of deep discomfort. My gaze lingers on Liang, trying to deduce any hint of sympathy toward Darriek. There’s none, though; only nausea and exhaustion. I’m surprised to find myself sympathizing with _that_.

_We’ve all been dragged through the Blacklands since this time yesterday,_ I think, giving Liang a small, awkward nod.

Duss shoots a questioning look my way.

“Yes, I heard.” Bluntness will serve today. I’m not going to try to do the social dance. “It doesn’t surprise me. Cindra, when will we hold their vigils today?”

Cindra swallows and averts her eyes, then nods to herself. “Noon, I think. We’ll bury then when we get back to the castle and keep watch for the night then.”

I can see discomfort in her movements as she keeps eating in exact, methodical bites. _It’ll be strange to hold a funeral without the bodies._ “Is anyone in dire condition?”

Cindra sets down her fork. “Clowd was the worst burned.” There’s a weight in her voice that I don’t understand. “But he heals faster than other people, it seems. They’re already better than they were last night; they _should_ scar, but…” A shrug. “Maybe they won’t.”

Something occurs to me then. “Did Med Frer…”

“No. I treated Clowd in private.”

I watch her eat for another moment, then for the first time, true certainty washes over me. _I can trust her. Lady Plait, Thundria’s healer. We’re in good hands._ I breathe out, long and slow, then turn to Duss.

“We’ll return to Thundria today, I think. The fire went out overnight,” I say, deciding as I go. “I want patrols disseminated over the worst-burned areas to check on villages so we—so _I_ can start organizing the rebuilding efforts. I’ll go with Fiyr to check the castle itself.”

Duss nods.

“You can take Lady Peilte, and you two,” I gesture to Liang and Sewif, “and go to the east forests to investigate the root of the fire. And over the next few days we’ll spread out until we’ve checked the whole territory.”

Liang actually looks comforted rather than captious at my brisk orders. Sewif seems utterly checked out. Satisfied that I won’t have to wrangle either of them, I turn back to Cindra.

“And I wanted to speak with you alone.”

Cindra nods. We stand with our plates, mine still mostly untouched, and I let her lead me to the kitchen area. I don’t like being in the midst of Rivier; not necessarily because I think they’re about to attack us—they would’ve done it overnight if that had been their intent—but just because I have so little control here. I don’t even know what half the canvas encampments are _for_ , much less how to move among them and keep the court running smoothly. Destroyed or not, I want to be back in Thundria’s castle as soon as possible.

When we’ve returned our plates, she drifts back outside into the hot, salty air and I follow.

“I just wanted to ask about everyone’s conditions,” I say, continuing to trail after her as she keeps moving, almost seeming aimless. “Are there any more… projected casualties?”

“I told you, Clowd’s the worst injured and he’s going to be fine,” she murmurs, ducking through the entrance of another tent. It’s the healer’s wing, I realize, when I see Med Frer seated at a desk in the back. The set-up is remarkably similar to Thundria’s. That’s a relief, at least.

_I was wondering if you softened the truth for Sewif._ I don’t say that. “And… um…” I bite my lip. “I heard what Darriek said about Lady Fennen. Are you alright?”

Even if I’m not particularly literate in facial expressions, the look Cindra shoots me communicates ‘I’d like to strangle him, actually’ clearly enough. “I’m fine.”

I nod, lingering in the entrance of the healer’s tent. _Well, if she doesn’t need emotional support, I can… leave, right?_

Cindra pauses and turns back to me with an odd look. “I learned something.”

_Huh?_

“Burns. Men, or… _born_ -men, to be exact, burn more easily. And freeze, and die of illness, and starve. All faster than born-women, in our records,” she says, her frank evaluation in stark contrast to the warm, golden light of the Rivien sunshine against canvas. I wonder if Med Frer can hear her discussing how his sex perishes more easily. “Last night I looked through Rivier as well. And it’s true; the deaths even out from things like childbirth and female-specific diseases.” Cindra slings a shrug, gaze wandering somewhere above my shoulder and then fixing itself back to mine with intensity. “But the Starlaxi built us differently, in some ways. I was checking, because of your whole… in-between thing. I wanted to know what the exact differences were, besides different body parts. And for some things, we’re the same, and in other respects, different. Born-women… we’re made to survive.”

I still, and Cindra steps back, looking me over like she’s wondering what effect it’s had. Then she smiles with one side of her mouth.

“I hope, anyway. Because sometimes I feel like I’m going to smash into a million pieces. It’d be nice to think I’ve got some kind of survival gift in my blood,” she whispers, and squeezes her eyes shut. “Sorry, Samn. I didn’t… I mean, I just want to help you. Somehow. I know that the queen is…”

“I understand,” I say, and I do. Sometimes it feels like my whole life has been made of events trying to destroy me. I look into Cindra’s sorrowful gray gaze and see the same reflected in her.

_My father, Silaverre, my squirehood, her accident, Braukkiniaum, Tigre, Lady Fennen, Queen Bluelianna…_ I close the distance between us and enfold her in my arms, feeling her heartbeat as she crumples against me. I don’t know if it makes me selfish or horrible, only being able to truly understand someone who has seen the same things as me, but in that moment I feel connected to her in a way I’ve only felt before with Fiyr and Queen Bluelianna, before Sir Cawle’s betrayal. _I can trust you,_ I think. “You can trust me.”

“I hope so,” she whispers. “I do.”

I tighten my hold on her until she wheezes and laughs, and then pull away. There’s a glow in her eyes, chasing out some of the exhaustion and pain.

“I’m glad,” I say.

She looks at me silently for a moment, then rasps another laugh and says, “Did you know cinder rocks float?”

“You’re in a metaphorical mood.”

She shrugs.

Cindra stays in the tent, going over to speak with Med Frer, and I return to the main area of the encampment. Fiyr’s sitting with Graie, Faern, Sir Fere, Clowd, and Lady Faise, and sure enough, Clowd somehow looks both worse and better.

Last night, it was hard to see the extent of his burns after he reappeared with Cindra. His skin was discoloured and he seemed on the perpetual edge of crying out in pain, but the night concealed the truth. Now, in the light of the morning, I see the bubbling across his forearms, the peeling skin on his cheeks, and the furious red that gives him the appearance of someone who was just slapped several times, all across his body. He’s not crying in pain anymore, at least.

Fiyr and Graie stand when they see me, both open-faced and smiling. _How?_ This is what we lost when we lost Graie, I think. Indomitable buoyancy.

“Samn, there’re a couple of people I want you to meet,” Graie says, extending a hand to me. I don’t take it, but join them as they leave the rest of the group and head toward one of the more secluded tents.

A woman, taller than any of us with a thin, slick black braid, steps out of the tent and eyes me suspiciously.

“Lady Naso.” Graie bobs his head and she returns the gesture without looking away from me. _Hm. Rivien women. I wonder what they’re like,_ I think, following the pale woman with my gaze as she walks off into the encampment.

Just as Graie pulls the flap aside, two toddlers hurtle out to grab his legs.

“Dad!”

He sweeps up the boy in his arm and bends to bring the girl onto his knee as well, his whole face lighting up as he looks at them. “How’d you two escape?! Lady Pelle! The prisoners are free!”

They’re sturdy children, with heavy pale arms and bright cheeks, and they look at Graie like he’s the sun. A short, plump woman, Lady Pelle I’m assuming, steps to the entrance of the nursery tent and looks down at them with mock horror and surprise. “Oh no! They broke the enchantment!”

The girl shrieks gleefully and runs to try to escape Graie as he wraps his arm around her waist and holds her tightly to his chest.

Fiyr’s looking down at them with a mix of adoration and longing. _Oh boy._

“They’re… er, large,” I observe, then dig my nails into my palms. “I mean, they’re nice kids, Graie.”

He spins on his knee to look at me, both toddlers at his sides. As he grins up at Fiyr and me, I’m struck with the feeling that this is the most Graie-like I’ve seen him since he left Thundria. Since he lost Silaverre, really.

“These are my friends, guys,” he tells them. “Uncle Fiyr and Lady Schorme, Thundria’s captain.”

The girl’s eyes round as she looks up at me with an odd mix of worship and fear. The boy hurls himself at Fiyr with a hug.

“And Samn, Fiyr, this is Storrem,” Graie _pof_ s the fluffy head of his son, “and Faetherra.”

My irritation at Graie revealing my name to anyone within earshot vanishes when his daughter totters over to my knee, still craning her head all the way back to look up at me. I kneel, submitting to being awkwardly seized with one chubby hand.

“You’re captain,” Faetherra burbles.

“Yes,” I say. _How do you talk to children?_

“She’s got her eye on the crown,” Lady Pelle observes, still hovering behind Graie. “Lady Fore will have to look out.”

_Lady Fore will be just fine._ I look at Faetherra a moment longer, taking in the sea-blue of her eyes. She didn’t get those from Graie. _What will Rivier think of a half-court girl grasping for power?_ “Well, good luck to both of them.”

Faetherra flashes me a gap-toothed grin and I find myself softening. _I know it’s not an easy road, kid. You can do it, though._

“Has she demonstrated?” I ask Graie. Lady Pelle’s face puckers with distrust but Graie smiles easily.

“Yeah, a few months ago. She brought in a huge gale overnight,” he says. “Looks like storm-elementalism.”

Fiyr bursts into laughter. “You’re kidding.”  
“Nope. Matched set, they are. The Starlaxi’s little miracles,” Graie says, pinching Storrem’s cheek.

_Oh, that’s… unlikely._ I eye the children. _Well, that should confuse their enemies. Named for storm with bird-summoning, and named for feather with storm-elementalism._

“Time for their naps, I think,” Lady Pelle says smoothly, sweeping them back into the tent as they wave to Graie. I don’t miss the edge in her gaze when she rakes it over me.

_I’m not trying to find out their life-forces for an advantage in some eventual battle,_ I try to communicate to her silently. _I’m not going to fight Graie’s kids._

Graie dusts off his black, Rivien-issue pants, and stands with another easy smile. “So, should we be expecting a happy announcement from you two anytime soon?”

“No,” I answer, then glance at Fiyr. “Well. Someday, we’ve said. But not soon.”

Graie’s expression sobers. “Yeah. I understand.”

_A forest liable to explode into flames and a shaky power transferral is not the environment I want to raise my children in._

“I heard about Lady Fennen,” he says quietly as we walk back over to the thick of the camp. “It’s awful.”

Fiyr nods, brows drawing together at the reminder of our loss.

“She served our court so faithfully without being born in it…” I say and can’t help wondering about Graie’s position in Rivier. _He seems friendly with Sir Feur and Lady Pelle… And his children must be treated well enough if Faetherra has aspirations for the crown._

“Subtle.” Graie quirks a brow at me, our grief passing. Fiyr doesn’t follow us into the lighter conversation.

“You could come back,” he says, voice quavering. “Queen Bluelianna wouldn’t say no, and Samn, you’d… you could, Graie.”

Graie squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t, Fiyr. You all have enough to deal with without me starting a war between our courts. Lady Fore is just starting to warm up to me.” He gives a tight laugh.

I’m grateful to him for seeing our weakness and the fragility of the situation. Especially since Lady Fore’s also starting to… well, ‘warm up’ would be an exaggeration. Starting to tolerate me, I hope. “We understand, Graie.”

He nods, then looks up at the sky. “Would you look at that? It’s starting to rain.”

Relief washes over me along with the raindrops as the pregnant clouds split to pour down on us, and when I look at Fiyr, I’m certain it’s not just rain streaking his face. In the strangest connection, I think of his sister, Princesca. Then I look back at Thundria and think, _How many people has he been forced to give up because of his choice to be in Thundria?_ I reach out to take his hand, hoping I can communicate to him the same bond I felt with Cindra. _I understand. I understand. I support you. I trust you._

We stand in the rain, letting it wash us clean, until it’s time to return to Thundria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah she done. I think most of the last is just denouement. But I really like this one. Lots of good bits I think. Boy oh boy we are rapidly approaching the end of my pre-written chapters lol
> 
> ~Akila


	23. Chapter 22 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite short. But to the point, I think.

Chapter 22 - Samn Schorme

Steeling myself to have to return home wasn’t something I thought I’d have to do.

We set out before the sun starts to dip below the Rivien sea. Graie joins us, and Clowd’s attempt to do the same is rebuffed by Fiyr. Though I think Clowd is old enough—in a god’s sense of aging—to travel the distance, I want to shield him from the destruction we’re sure to find.

Strangely, that morning, as I’m gathering what we’ll need for our journey and packing it into our allotted boat by the docks of the island, I find myself remembering the day I found out my father had died. I remember Ravne’s wide eyes, mostly, and Fiyr’s young, confused face. I remember how the ground seemed to tip away from underneath me.

I don’t want Clowd to feel that, ever. Nor Faern, of course, but Clowd… I watch him as I come back up from the dock, my arms a little limp after being freed from their heavy load. Cindra crouches over him, administering some sort of salve to his burned shoulders. He seems to shoot up every season, already at our heights and still a child by human standards. He looks more like a man than a boy, but I can’t forget for a second that he still desperately needs protection. He won’t have to grow up too fast, I pray.

“Ready?” Fiyr asks, coming up to me as I’m still staring at Clowd and Cindra.

I tear my eyes away from them. “Yes. Everything’s packed. Where’s Graie?”

“I think he’s checking in with their king,” Fiyr says, shielding his eyes as he looks across the encampment toward the main tent.

_His king?_ I wonder. _Does he still think of Queen Bluelianna as his monarch?_ I scan the Rivien court, sitting at tables in groups of families and friends, lives so interwoven and deeply connected. _If we suddenly had someone from Rivier join us…_ I wouldn’t trust them either. Maybe I’m turning into Lady Fore, but I’ve never been unclear on my priorities. _I have to put Thundria first._

Graie reappears from the tent and jogs toward us. “King Crukkedaro gave the okay. Let’s get going!”

Fiyr falls in step with him immediately, conversation already flowing between them.

“I’ve missed the castle so much,” Graie sighs. “Floors that don’t move…”

I crack my knuckles as we walk down to the dock. _There might not be much of a castle left._

I’m prepared for the worst, and I still can’t help a silent cry wracking me when we reach the line of ash, astride our horses that we recollected at the shore of the sea. The air is stiflingly hot, and the forest looks like a snowless winter. When we enter the burned territory, there’s no hint of green for miles.

None of us speak. It feels wrong, like we’d be disturbing something’s resting place. I nudge Dune in front of the others to be the first to enter. Her hooves touch the ground in puffs of white ash. Burned logs litter the earth. The path is almost completely wrecked, only a faint gap between charred trees marking the difference between untamed forest and road.

“We should check on the villages,” I rasp.

“Haven’t you sent…” Fiyr trails off.

“Yes. But we… we can’t leave them like this any longer.” _Whoever is left, anyway._ I swing my head from side to side, slowly taking in the total destruction. _We abandoned them when we fled to Rivier, didn’t we?_ My stomach turns. _We’re supposed to offer them protection, and we left them to burn._

Fiyr looks sick. I shake my head.

“There was nothing you could do.”

He swallows, gazing up at the sky, unfairly blue and peaceful for this sort of day. “We both know that’s not true.”

Graie surveys the burned-out world and shakes his head as well. “No, Fiyr. The amount of life-force it would have taken to extinguish this much fire… it would’ve killed you.”

Misery lines his face. “But we know my life-force is… is different. Maybe…”

“I wouldn’t have let you take that risk,” I say quietly. Just the idea of it now, imagining him facing the vast wildfire with only what life-force burns in his chest to save him from obliteration—my mind shies away. “You’re safe. We’re safe.”

Fiyr tilts his head. We’ve escaped the columns of dead trees, finding a patch of our territory that’s fields, hills, and gullies. There’s a village nearby, and even from where we stand, it’s clear they didn’t escape the fire.White-tiled rooves are caved in and painted black with ash. The sweetness of villager life-force is drowned in the stinging metal-tang of fire, and campfire-wood smoke smell of ash.

_What has been taken…_ I look at Fiyr and Graie, both plainly horrified by the destruction, knowing their life-forces are in their elements here. We ride into the village and one by one, villagers leave their razed homes to greet us. I try to put on my best compassionate, competent face to cover the thrum of _I failed you, I failed you all,_ that underlines it.

“Governor Daven,” I say as we reach the family that stand outside the wreckage of their house.

The reedy man manages to smile. “Captain.”

I dismount Dune to take his hand, forcing past the awkwardness and staring deep into his eyes. “Thundria pledges to do all we can to rebuild Centella.”

I know it’s too late. Still, the governor dips his head. “Thank you.”

Fiyr steps forward to greet the man as well, and Graie casts a look over the whole assembly of villagers. Then he raises a hand, his vest hanging wide enough for anyone to notice the stark cerulean of his clothes compared to our greens. His life-force ring glitters momentarily as he moves his hand over the crowd of villagers.

The ash staining their faces, their clothes, their belongings, lifts off in a great cloud of what looks like smoke. As if he’s cast a flood through the town to wash them clean again, each face seems to shine a little brighter, the death-like cast replaced with ruddy glows. Graie waves his hand again like he’s motioning for someone to go in front of him, and the cloud rises up into the air, spiralling away, presumably to be deposited far from the village.

When he lowers his hand, it’s shaking. His eyes gleam with the glassy look of over-extension.

The villagers incline their heads. It’s a small gesture, I know; the road is still bordered with ruined homes. Some of the earth beyond the outskirts of their town is now where they’ll lay fathers, daughters, spouses to rest. The small act of cleaning may be for nothing if we cannot live past this moment. I look back at Daven and feel the ache in his eyes press deep into my own heart.

“Whatever we can do,” I repeat.

We leave, and visit more. There are dozens of villages on our path, all in the same state of ruin. My memory is better today, I think, because as I look at the skeletons left behind, I remember each of them; thriving marketplaces and simple lives, their fountains and gardens and schools… Destruction is the same everywhere. It takes the beautiful diversity and mix of histories and turns them all to the same ash fluttering in the wind.

Though his breath becomes ragged, his movements sluggish, again and again, Graie sweeps them clean. I don’t know when our next chance to clean ourselves will be; what state will the showers be in? Maybe this gesture to them means more than I know.

Finally, there are no more villages to ride through. We’ve come to the base of the castle.

The towering trunks that stood beneath our castle are scorched, deep black scars left in their trunks. Fiyr touches one, removing his glove to put his pale hand on the crumbling bark.

“The fire was moving fast,” he says, his voice papery thin. “It was hot, but it didn’t linger. The tree is alive in there.”

I don’t know how he knows, whether it’s some connection to the whims of the fire through his life-force or just a desperate prayer, but I believe him. “Good.”

It’s difficult to find the pad of leaves that will vanish our horses up to the treetops given the ash buried everything in thick gray snowdrifts. I leave Dune with Fiyr and Graie and scrabble my gloved fingers into the dead bark of the trees instead.

“Samn,” Fiyr says, but falls silent as I haul myself off the ground, fingers and toes digging into the bark.

Hand over hand. I remember coming back to the castle after training with Sir Strommer and Duss because my father was away in the fight for Sun Rocks. Hand over hand. I remember the first time I made it up the tree without the ladder. Hand over hand, hand over hand, bringing myself to the destruction of my home.

I emerge from beneath the bare branches, their leaves stripped away in the inferno.

It is not gone. It is in ruins, turrets sagging and entire walls torn away, but the Thundrian castle still stands.

I sink to my knees and thank the Starlaxi. Its remains are a promise of so much rebuilding, but there is a castle left to rebuild. I turn on my knees, looking out across the burned forests and toward the pockets of green that escaped the flames. _I’ll shoulder the burdens,_ I think again, feeling like I’m making a promise to the land beneath me. _I won’t abandon you again, Thundria._

A familiar fizz of life-force lets me know that Fiyr, Graie, and the horses have found the Blessing that allows them to travel up to the treetops.

I stand. “Come on.”

Fiyr breathes out heavily and I know he’s going to need a moment to take in the destruction. Still, I hold onto my own angle of seeing this not as wreckage, but as what survived.

We walk into the castle. The heavy oak doors— _Pushing through them with Duss, Fiyr walking in wonderingly, Ravne stumbling in, stuttering so hard he couldn’t speak_ —have been reduced to splintered lengths of burned wood beneath our feet.

Graie’s gasp hisses in the silence. Fiyr makes a noise that dies in his throat. I’m silent.

The left wall is a pile of rubble; the elder’s wing is gone. The nursery is mostly caved in. The kitchens lie beyond that same pile of rubble, and the dining hall next to it also lies in ruins. To our right, the stairs up to the knights’ wing reach its first landing, then disappear into rocks and the caved in roof.

“Healer’s wing,” I rasp. _Lady Fennen. We have to recover her body, give her a proper burial._

It’s the most intact; only a portion of its roof collapsed. The stones that fell lie where the door to the back storage should be. The windows are all broken, their glass lying in shards on the floor. It crunches underfoot as I cross toward the storage room.

Fiyr and Graie draw to my sides, and without a word, we begin to shift the rocks. My hands feel too tender on the rough surfaces of the rocks, but Fiyr hardly seems to feel it, shoving his hands between boulders and levering them apart. I summon sand to help, filtering it between cracks and making it expand until the rocks roll aside. Finally, we fall to our knees, raking handfuls of rock back.

The door is revealed. Fiyr is the one to take the metal handle, bent out of shape but still holding on. I brace myself for what we’re going to find behind it, and thank the Starlaxi that Cindra and Clowd stayed behind.

“Took you… long enough,” a low, gravelly voice rasps from within as Fiyr pulls the door open.

“What…” My mouth drops open.

The daylight spilling through the broken window stretches a shaft of sunshine into the dark corner of the room, where Lady Yllowei Fennen lays, curled over herself.

“Lady Fennen,” Graie gasps, hurrying to her side. Fiyr does the same, and I find myself rooted to the ground in the entrance. “How did you survive?”  
“Spite, mostly,” she says, barely shifting from her hunched position. Her voice was always low and husky, but what I’m assuming was smoke inhalation has turned it to the sound of the boulders scraping across each other as we pulled them aside. “I won’t… I won’t live much longer,” she rasps. “I had to speak before I left.”

Finally, my stunned silence breaks and my chest fills with admiration for the iron-willed old woman. “Whatever you need to say, we’ll listen.”

“Cindra?” Yllowei asks.

“Not here,” Fiyr murmurs. “But any message…”

Lady Fennen croaks a laugh, which turns into a cough that sounds a little bloody. “No. No more… orders for her. She is the healer now.”

Fiyr nods, taking her hand in his. I look at her gnarled fingers, tightening around those of the man who found her in a forest more than decade ago.

“I need to say…” she says, the hoarseness of her voice mangling her words. “I need to thank you. _Je vous remerciez._ Thundria gave me… another chance…”

As she falls silent, her head lolling back a little, I wonder if she’s dead. Then she coughs and speaks again, filmy eyes blinking open.

“Damn thing.” Her hand curls over her chest like she can peel the smoke out of her lungs. Blood trickles from her nose, bright scarlet against the ashy gray cast of her skin, and I wonder just how much spite it’s taken her to hold onto life through the pain she must be feeling, all since yesterday, with no water, without moving. Yllowei peers up at Fiyr. “Thank you. You gave me a second life. I’ve been meant for death before. I’ve felt this… I feel them waiting…” She coughs, weaker this time. Then she lifts her stare to me. “And you. You will keep our court safe. Look after Bluelianna. Thundria is in good hands.” She takes a snagging breath. “You will… persist, yes?”

“Yes,” I say, kneeling to take her other hand, anchoring her to our world for a second more.

Lady Fennen smiles and closes her eyes. “Then I’m ready to go.”

We stay there, all four of us taking the same breaths, until her pulse, beating through the blue veins of her hands, slows. And stops.

“Goodbye,” Fiyr murmurs, tracing his callused thumb over her skin, and then dropping her hand into her lap.

I let her hand go as well, and stand. “We should bury her. Then we return to the encampment.”

Graie nods. Fiyr gazes down at Yllowei. “She had… she had an herb garden. Cindra brought me to it once.”

“There, then,” I murmur and kneel to lift Lady Fennen’s side. Fiyr joins me, and Graie takes her feet in his hands. She’s light, so light for such a steady, solid presence.

We carry her out of the castle, then down through the dead forest, and I speak the mourning words again. It should be Cindra. We can hold the ceremony again, I know, with her body. We’ve already held it at the Rivien encampment, but that wasn’t a _Thundrian_ vigil. We need our court back in our territory, our castle rebuilt, our monarch strong, and our dead buried on our own soil.

I find a spade in the hollow of a tree next to what’s left of Lady Fennen’s garden—darker earth and a line of charred string—and we dig her a grave.

“Blessed Starlaxi, we have lost one of our own,” I say again.

_She was one of us,_ I think, looking at Graie. _And he’s no Rivien. She was not Shodawes._ Like their loyalties are a tangible thing, I can feel them as sure as my fingernails against my palm when I curl my hands into fists. _We are their court. They are of us._

We leave her to sleep in the earth and cross the territory back toward the Rivien sea. Graie takes the lead, instinctively charting a course around the ruined villages. There’s nothing we can do for them this instant, but as we dismount our horses and pile back into the small boats, I look back up at the forest that rises over the cliffs. _We’ll be back,_ I think. _I’ll come back for you all, and I’ll never abandon you again._

I don’t despair this time, when we touch down on the Summer Isles and find ourselves surrounded by lush greenery and life. I don’t feel useless and out of place as I watch Lady Fore sort out patrols with the kind of easy efficiency that comes with holding her position for decades.

I think of Lady Fennen, first. _Spite, mostly,_ her hoarse remark echoes in my mind. I wrap my fingers around my thumb and squeeze, feeling the ragged nail and torn cuticle from too much stress. _When I am Thundria’s monarch…_

Fiyr and I go to update Queen Bluelianna. Graie doesn’t immediately go to see King Crukkedaro, which makes my certainty flare brighter. _He is still Thundrian._ I look across the encampment at him, the way he’s blended himself into Rivier and yet still is so foreign when surrounded by them. I remember Fiyr’s plea to him yesterday. _Not now. We can’t afford to try to bring him back to us, much less his children, but… he won’t be buried on Rivien land. He’ll come back to us, one day. Once it’s safe._

I look back at Fiyr, who also follows Graie with his eyes as Graie hurries over to greet his children. I think of the longing look Fiyr gave those kids when Graie introduced us yesterday.

_One day,_ I say again to myself. _Once it’s safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh i like this one as well. Leave me a review! mwah
> 
> ~Akila


	24. Chapter 23 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news bears men I’ve been slacking on writing the next lot. There might be a big big gap between Waning Moon and book 5. This chapter was also incredibly annoying to write. Hopefully that doesn’t translate into the reading experience lol. Reviews feed me as always.

Chapter 23 - Clowd

Cindra doesn’t cry.

Even as we’re clearing the rubble from the floor in front of the storage room, ducking in and out of where Lady Fennen drew her last breaths, Cindra seems so single-mindedly focused on her work that she doesn’t waver for an instant. I don’t know if I’m doing it for my sake or for hers, but even as Faern and I finish moving the caved-in rocks, I stick by her side. Even when she goes and wraps Lady Fyrra’s hand and it’s really gross.

Finally, she stops. We’re standing under the window that we jumped out, I realize, noticing the cot that’s been dragged under it. It’s still the early afternoon; the sun gleams gold on the shards of glass.

“I guess Samn and Fiyr buried her,” Cindra says. There’s not much in her tone; she’s just quiet. Even so, a heavy sadness settles on me.

“We could go there,” I suggest. “And… like, hold another vigil.”

“Another?” she echoes, snorting. “I don’t want to bother her spirit too much.”

_She sounds like Lady Fennen,_ I think, and then say, “I don’t think she’d mind. Besides, it’s not… it’s not _right_ to have a vigil without being near the body, and on your own territory.”

Cindra gives me a long look, then nods and returns to the storage room, probably to see if any of the funeral rite-herbs survived.

I look up at the shattered window, and the blue sky beyond it. _You didn’t save them, did you?_ I ask, even though I know I’m not talking to anyone. _Stars are just stars, and prayers are just comforts. But…_

“Here we are.” Cindra sets down the rosemary, rubbing the imaginary dust off the yellow cap of the jar. “Don’t know how it survived. But we can put a little on the grave.”

I nod. _I guess the habits and ceremonies are still important. They can still mean something, even if they’re for our sake and not for a bunch of ghosts._ “We should ask everyone else if they want to attend the ceremony too. I’m sure there are a lot of people who want to say goodbye.”  
She cracks a smile. “I think you’re right.”

I stick by the window as Cindra leaves to go round up any court members who want to say a final, proper goodbye to Lady Fennen. Surveying the healer’s wing reveals nothing I’m not already painfully aware of; there’s going to be a lot of backbreaking labour in everyone’s future. _It’s gonna take months, maybe years, before we’re back where we were…_ Dread sinks like a stone in my stomach. Somehow, though, I keep one positive note in mind. _But we_ can _rebuild, can’t we? We can strip away the old and build something new._

Looking up at the roof of the healer’s wing, timber vaulting and clay mostly stolen by the fire’s hunger, I realize something. _This castle wasn’t ever mine, was it?_ I think of my father. _I felt like I belonged anywhere but here, and that led me to some awful shit. And maybe it’s true that I didn’t belong here; Darriek didn’t think so. Even Samn didn’t, at times, didn’t she? She was upset I was missing, but… I guess we both knew a half-god wasn’t really supposed to be here, in her court._

Cindra, Faern, Fiyr, and Lady Faise were probably the four people ready to fight to prove I _did_ belong here. _I’m glad they wanted me here even when I didn’t want myself. But now that the fire’s taken so much…_ On half-instinct, I stretch a hand, still mottled with red burns, up to block out the still-intact parts of the building above me, just showing myself blue sky. _We can rebuild the way we want. I can rebuild, and I can be part of making this place for myself. I can make a place I belong._

“Clowd? Helloooo, anyone in there?” Faern’s standing in the entrance of the healer’s wing. I blink, then turn.

“Oh, yeah, uh… Just thinking. What’s up?”

“Lady Plait said that if anyone wanted to attend the vigil for Lady Fennen we should come in here,” Faern says, her voice wobbling a little. “She just did so much for us… I can’t believe she’s gone.”

As she comes over, I put an arm around her shoulders the way Cindra does to me. _Even though I hardly cry,_ I think, and give Faern a little squeeze. “Yeah. But I’m sure Cindra will do a really good job as healer.”

“It won’t be the same,” Faern sniffles.

Little by little, most of the court filters into the healer’s wing, many in white mourning clothes streaked with char and ash. I’m not surprised to see Lady Eie or Lady Tayel; Lady Fennen seemed to get along better with people her age. Lady Tiall is there as well with a reluctant Sewif. The last to come are Samn and Fiyr, with Cindra at their side.

_Everyone came, didn’t they?_ I think, staring out over the crowd of faces. _Everyone… except the queen._

Suddenly, the group pulls apart to stand at the edges and make way for Queen Bluelianna herself, standing in the entrance of the healer’s wing. Her hair is bound back, hand steady on the pommel of _Winter’s Wrath_ like she’s ready for battle. Her ice-sharp eyes rove over each of us, and my stomach sinks. _What’s she going to say…?_

Samn takes a half-pace toward her, but the queen holds up her hand.

“You gather for Lady Fennen’s vigil,” the queen rasps. None of us speak, but she nods. “Yes. You do. You wish to send her to the Starlaxi? The elders as well, I imagine.”

Cindra is the one to step forward this time, her face set in stone. “Yes.”

The queen’s gaze falls on her and stops there, becoming cold. “I forbid it.”

The court is utterly silent, but I can’t help a half-gasp escaping me. _What in the Blacklands is she doing?! The court needs this right now, whether or not the Starlaxi means anything, or can do anything. We need to say goodbye to her._

“They would be better if they stayed on this earth,” the queen continues, each word as steady as a sword stabbing into a practice dummy. “They would better far from those traitorous liars.”

“Your Majesty,” Samn is saying, even as the impact of the queen’s words wreak havoc over all of us. She moves to the queen’s side, laying a hand on her monarch’s shoulder that Queen Bluelianna fails to shrug off. Not a gesture of peace, but of silencing. “Not here. You need to go back to your chambers, now.”

“The court must know the truth,” the queen spits, wresting herself free of Samn’s hand at last. “They must _know_ that the _Starlaxi_ will lead us into darkness. It is not safe to send them our loved ones, it is not safe to heed their words, and it is not safe to continue to hold on tight to them as they poison us!”

As if she’s yanking a spooked horse away from a squire, Samn half-hauls the queen out of the healer’s wing. Nobody dares breathe in the instant they’re gone, then an unsteady relief ripples over us when Samn returns, alone.

Even though it’s never gotten this bad, never gotten this open, I recognize Samn’s posture. Her back is ramrod-straight, movements stiff, and eyes glittering with what I call her ‘true-steel look.’ She sweeps a long look over all of us, the strangest mix of pity, anger, and unyielding determination on her face.

“This is what we will do. We will hold the vigil,” she says, deadly calm. “We will honour the Starlaxi. The queen is shaken from the fire; we all are. But now, more than ever, we _must_ put our faith in our ancestors. We will stay calm, and we will rebuild stronger than ever before. We will grant Lady Fennen, Sir Peld, and Sir Tyle a peaceful journey to the stars where they belong, and we will thank them for their years of service to our court.”

I breathe out a little unsteadily, then look around at the court surrounding me. They look at Samn like starving men to a feast, and I understand exactly how they’re all feeling. _We know there’s something wrong with the queen. I guess most of us have known for a while. But now we know what we’re going to do about it; follow Samn, and hold on to the Starlaxi._

Still, as everyone else seems to turn away from the queen’s words and back toward Samn and her promise of faith, I start cracking my knuckles nervously. _Is this what faithlessness means? Madness and chaos, and that the only way to keep the court alive and well is by following the Starlaxi to the end…?_ With aching injuries still scorching most of my skin, I can’t believe that. _But it’s up to_ us _to keep ourselves safe, not them. Obviously they don’t have the power to keep us protected from everything, or else they don’t want to, for some reason._

Cindra joins Samn at her side, turning back toward us. Even though Samn’s red tunic is covered in ash and rips, and even though Cindra’s ruddy brown cheeks have turned pale and sick-looking with the loss, I know what I’m looking at. _That’s our future. Queen Samn and Lady Plait, right? How much longer does Queen Bluelianna have?_

And as we leave the castle, all together, to hold the ceremony at Lady Fennen’s grave, the queen doesn’t re-emerge from her chambers. It’s a beautiful day if you can ignore the scorched forest all around us, like we’ve all stepped into a sketch of spindly shadows and unnatural, white trees.

“Blessed Starlaxi, we have lost three of our own.” Cindra speaks the words again, an insistence in her voice as if she’s trying to project to everyone that these words mean something, and that there is someone listening. “Bring their spirits into your noble rank and allow them to find thousands of seasons of rest and safety.”

She holds out her hand over the earthen grave, shredded leaves of rosemary and thyme caught by the summer breeze, swirling out to be scattered in the garden. “Lady Yllowei Fennen, Sir Partch Peld, and Sir Heff Tyle died in the wildfire. They are gone but not forgotten and lives on in the memories of all of us. Sir Peld’s wife Lady Tiall, daughter, Lady Flourer, and sons Sewif and his two infants, Sir Tyle’s wife Lady Eie, and his daughter Lady Fyrra. He joins his son, Sir Rynnin Wynnd, in the Starlaxi now. And Lady Fennen… in the memory of all the lives she saved both in our court and in Shodawa’s, in the memory of everyone whose life she touched, and in my memory as my mentor, my guide, and my role model.”

Cindra pauses as the last of the herbs flit from her palms, then closes her shaking hand into a fist and lowers it to her side.

“We recognize that you have chosen to take them from us now and though we will mourn their passing, we will rest peacefully in the knowledge that you will take their spirits in and allow them to watch over those they loves from the stars.” Her voice quiets as she finishes the ceremony. We lower our heads.

…

“And that leaves Clowd and Sewif on dinner duty,” Samn finishes.

Sewif swears next to me and I elbow him at the same time as Briatte shoots him a disapproving look.

At least it’s not dragging rocks to and fro. I have seen enough boulders to last me ten lifetimes. I hope we use primarily hay to rebuild, even if it’s a billion times more flammable.

It’s been about a month since the wildfire. The castle’s still mostly in shambles since Samn seems to be concentrating nearly exclusively on helping the villagers in the fire’s path rather than us. Since Lady Fennen’s vigil, the queen’s appearances in court have been spotty to non-existent. The summer’s heat has faded into a more comfortable, chilly autumn, at least, which has made what little training I’ve had between rebuilding a lot less sweaty and painful but has meant some cold nights swaddled under three layers in what’s left of the squire’s wing.

“Come on, then,” Sewif grunts, already heading toward the kitchen.

Trying not to groan out loud, I follow him into the somewhat-rebuilt kitchen. The privvies and the kitchens were the top of the list for repairs, which meant a few days of sleeping on the floor with blankets made of clothes. I still have an ache in my neck that may never fully disappear. Speaking of injuries disappearing though, my smallest burns are finally healing. I can flex my hands without raw skin splitting open, and with enough careful limb placement, it’s possible to sleep without being in so much pain that I feel like I’m going to black out. Cindra’s told me that my back and legs are probably going to be scarred but that the rest will heal in another month or so.

I’m not really sure how I feel. On one hand, heck yeah, _cool scars_. But I still remember so much of that day in too-sharp detail—Cindra’s shredded fingernails as she tried to haul rocks twice her size away from the door that blocked in her mentor, smashing the window, the fire barrelling into the healer’s wing to kill both of us…

I hope I don’t feel that kind of helpless trapped-ness ever again.

“Stew?” Sewif groans. “I hate stew.”

I pick through what’s been laid out for us. Squash, sprouts, potatoes, peppers, and venison. _How did all this survive the fire? Did it grow just in the rebuilding-time?_ I skim a hand over the cold, thick skins of the vegetables, marvelling.

“Well, let’s start,” I say and Sewif groans again.

I’ve cooked this kind of thing before, I think, but never without help. Well, I have Sewif, but…

“You do the meat and the vegetables, and I’ll do the rest,” he decides.

_It’s_ all _meat and vegetables._ But I’d like to have made at least a bit of progress before I start a real fight. The old, battered pot we always use for this kind of stuff gets some oil, then I settle it over the flame and wait for the shimmering. I chop venison while Sewif rummages in drawers, then I start cleaning and dicing potatoes. Sewif pulls out a broken bottle.

“Where are our spices?” he demands of the air.

I keep shaving strips of tough skin off the squash, then cut through the buttery orange flesh beneath. _No spices? Whew._ Usually my problem with food is either the texture or the taste being so sharp and unpleasant that it makes my nose sting. Maybe I have a chance of enjoying something we make, now.

I toss in less onion than I’m supposed to, then the flour and celery. Most of the non-seasonal vegetables are a little shrivelly and have brown spots, but no one will notice when it’s all cooked together. Then I add the splash of wine, ignoring the non-existent spices that are supposed to be added, and cover it to let it all cook together. The smell isn’t half-bad—mostly plain meat with a hint of a tang beneath it.

“Start cutting up the sprouts and peppers,” I say to Sewif, who bristles at the order. He’s done nothing yet though, so I’m happy to get into that argument.

But instead of sniping at me, he just grimaces like he’s being sent off to die for his kingdom and slices a yellow pepper down its middle. I silently judge how he picks out the tiny, cream-coloured seeds with the tip of his knife, and keep cutting up the squash. It’s so dense I have to lean on the big, probably-dull knife to get through it. When Sewif starts cutting off most of the good parts of the vegetable and sweeping it into his ‘compost’ pile, I draw the line.

“Okay, stop,” I say, leaving the knife next to my squash and waving him away from the mutilated pepper. “You stir the stew and I’ll cut up the rest of the vegetables.”

I salvage the pepper while Sewif starts idly swirling the venison in its broth around. Even if cutting up vegetables gets dull as rocks after a few minutes, I tell myself I’m perfecting my hand movements. It’ll be useful to know how to hold a knife properly for more than one reason. I sever the squash again once the pepper’s in a stable condition, then pause suddenly, fingers tightening on the handle of the knife. I think of Lady’s Fyrra’s wrist and the shadow in her eyes, and drop the knife on the scarred wood board again.

Leaving it for a moment, I grab the potatoes and sweep them into the pot. Sewif seems content to continue manning the spoon.

“Fucked up what happened to Lady Fyrra,” I mutter before I can think better of striking up conversation.

“Yeah,” Sewif says, eyes trained on the pot.

“And your dad, I…”

“I don’t wanna—” Sewif stops, his jaw tightening like he’s trying to break his own teeth. “Don’t talk about him.”

I return to the squash, and even though that should’ve been my cue to stop trying to make conversation, I say, “Do you think Sir Cawle’s going to come back and try to take down Thundria?”

Sewif snorts. “It’d be pretty stupid if he did. Everyone knows what he did; no one wants to follow him.”

I shoot him a surprised look, then refocus on my squash. I would’ve thought with a mentor like Liang, Sewif would be more sympathetic. But maybe Liang’s been changing too. “I guess. It just seems…” I chop through the squash and try not to think about Lady Fyrra and Sir Wynnd. “I don’t know. Like, anti-climactic. Do you really think he’d kill a bunch of people and then run off and forget about Thundria?”

Sewif snorts again. “Who fuckin’ knows what’s going on in his head? Anyone stupid enough to try to depose their queen is capable of anything, as far as I’m concerned.”

_Or so committed to their goal that there’s no line they won’t cross._ I think of Samn and how the court reacted to her after the queen told us not to hold a vigil for Lady Fennen and the elders. “What do you think of Lady Schorme?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. What, are you spying for her?”

“Don’t be stupid.”  
He makes a noise that I would almost call a laugh, but it seems unlikely. “She’s probably gonna be Thundria’s next monarch, huh? She’s more… stable than the queen, I guess.”

I prod at a clump of squash-guts. “Do you think she’ll be a good queen?”

“Dunno.”

And I guess that’s about as much as I’m going to get out of him. Even though I want to ask him about the Starlaxi and the fire and the queen’s reaction to the vigil, anything that slightly broaches the topic of his father’s death is probably going to end with me getting a stew spoon whipped at my head. So instead I pick up my board full of squash and dump that in with the rest of the stew.

“This is going to taste like shit,” Sewif announces, stirring it in. “Our whole spice rack got wrecked. There’s no _salt_ , even.”

As Sewif predicted, most of the court finds it bland. I’m relieved; more for me. The textures are a little tough to manage but if I take small portions and separate each vegetable into its own corner of my bowl, it’s a lot easier to swallow than most of Thundrian food. I think of my father’s table and cringe. He didn’t make any of that food, though; I won’t think of him fondly for that. It was all the god-toys.

I think of Violetta and the letter that’s still in the remains of my nook. I got both it and the lullaby out safely, but I still haven’t spoken to Samn. It just feels to easy to try to forget about all of that. _Still, I need to help her. Samn and Fiyr and Briatte got me out of there, and now I have to get them out of there._ There’s just the tiny little problem of soul-clipping. _But if we found a way to get them out of that, then…_ My mom could home to me and Fiyr, too.

“Clowd’s asleep,” Faern announces to the table.

I frown at her. “Am not! I am just _enjoying_ my stew.”

“Impossible,” Thorrin says into his spoon. “This is so tasteless. How did you guys do it so badly?!”

Sewif knocks his hand again Thorrin’s head. “Shut up. The fire took out all the spices. I’d like to see you do better with an empty kitchen.”

“We’re going with Sir Harte to help rebuild Ampago tomorrow,” Briatte cuts in, directing the ‘we’ at me. “And they grow hot peppers, don’t they? Maybe they’ll have something waiting for us.”

I don’t think that’s likely, even if I don’t know very much about how long it takes to grow and harvest hot peppers. Still, spending the day with Fiyr and Briatte doesn’t sound too bad, despite the rebuilding. Faern’s hiding her smile in a mouthful of stew. I frown at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhlkshvbhh
> 
> ~Akila


	25. Chapter 24 - Clowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Clowd chapter! Enjoy!

Chapter 24 - Clowd

It takes until winter for the memory of the fire and my father to fade into a bad dream. By the time the first snow hits and everything’s in place for Snowstar’s Eve, I’ve almost managed to put it entirely behind me.

Fiyr and I come back from a successful hunt and I take the new ladder, heavy lengths of twine triple-knotted around each other. I think my calluses from all that weaving are finally fading.

When I haul myself above the treetops, I’m greeted by sheets of white swirling around the castle. It’s a gentle snow, the kind that’ll make snowbanks that Sarola, Rhane, and Siotos will carve into little castles, and that Sewif and Thorrin will use to whip handfuls at each others’ faces. This’ll be Sewif’s younger brothers’ first snow, too.

Maybe it’s the cold air, but my eyes sting suddenly, looking at the rebuilt castle.

“Alright, Clowd?”

“Huh? Yeah. I just…” I gesture vaguely at the snow.

Fiyr looks at the white sky. “I never thought I’d be so glad to see it.” We stand there for a second, then he adds, “I’ve been talking to Samn about letting you start your knight’s exams.”

“ _What_?!” I snap out of my snow-haze immediately.

He laughs. “Not all of them. You’re still young. But… I made a mistake, by trying to force you onto the path of all the other squires. I know that now. You’re different. You learn faster. You’ve blazed through all the material.”

As I begin to puff up— _Finally! This is what I’ve been trying to tell him for ages!—_ he holds up a hand.

“You have a lot of discipline and respect left to master, but there’s no sense in drilling you on things you’ve already learned. We can start studying tomorrow, and if everything goes well, you might be a knight by the winter after next.”

_A full knight at fifteen!_ That’s unheard of, surely? I know Fiyr was made a knight early supposedly, but _fifteen._ Sewif’s going to flip his lid.

“Alright, alright.” He waves his hand for me to calm down. “Let’s get our game back to the kitchens before I freeze out here.”

Sewif’s theoretically in charge of dinner, which means everything is going to be horrifically salty and inedible, but still, I savour his expression as Fiyr and carry my doe between us into the kitchen.

“Wow, Clowd!” Briatte exclaims, hurrying over to take it from us.

I hang around the kitchen while she and Sewif work, mostly just because of the smell of squash cooking in honey and the mulled cider that Lady Faise is heating up. I creep in as she swirls the cinnamon sticks through it, grab a mug, and sneak up beside her.

“It’s not _ready_ ,” she laughs, stirring it again in a smooth figure eight. “You don’t want cold cider, do you?”

“Smells ready to me,” I say, inching the mug closer to the pot.

Lady Faise pretends to look both ways, then ladles a half-cup into my mug. It’s steaming, sweet and spicy, and I immediately burn my tongue on it. She laughs again seeing my expression, then shoos me away. “There, that will teach you. Aren’t you and Fiyr meant to be decorating the dining hall?”  
“Are we?!” That can’t be a good sign. I hurry out with my stolen cider to go find Fiyr.

Indeed we are. Once my cider’s finished, I balance carefully on a ladder and pack boughs of holly onto ledges while Fiyr lays out candles over every candle in the hall, then lights them all at once. From his grin, I think he knows how impressive it is to watch. A wave of fire flows across the tabletops and leaves a soft glow behind. I stand still on the ladder for a moment, gazing down at the tiny flickering flames.

I peer up into the rafters, new enough that we haven’t grown any cobwebs yet, and with a burst of inspiration, reach out to create a little bubble of corruption just under the roof. Fiyr makes a noise when he sees it, but doesn’t stop me as I lengthen it, down in a spike pointing toward the stone floor of the hall, and then shape it. Needle-thin branches of corruption spread in layers until it looks like I’ve loaded massive snowflakes onto a pike and affixed it to the roof. A chandelier of corruption.

“Well, that might not go over well,” Fiyr says with a nervous laugh.

It sparkles, pearly white and ethereal, in the candlelight. I can feel my magic holding it together, like the cold that makes ice stay hard, and I know that as easy as pulling a slipknot, I could make it disintegrate. _Snowstar’s Eve, with a huge mass of corruption hanging over us. How festive. Well, they let_ me _into the dining hall._

I hear footsteps and turn, still on the ladder, to see Briatte come into the entryway and stop, staring up at my creation.

“Clowd…”

I stiffen. _I just want to do something nice! I’m_ not _human, I’m not going to just keep pushing it down until—_

“It’s beautiful,” Briatte whispers, her eyes widening as she walks into the dining hall, still looking up at it, all twinkly with Fiyr’s candles.

Something unknots in my chest and I slowly climb down from the ladder. “Uh, thanks. I just thought…” I clear my throat again. “I thought it’d be… cool.”

Briatte smiles again, tucks her hair behind her ear, and says, “Right. I’d better go make sure Sewif didn’t burn anything.”

“Hah. Yep.”

I go back to my holly and ignore Fiyr once she’s left the hall.

Faern’s worse the second we sit down to eat. She seems to have a super-human ability to detect when I’ve been awkward around Briatte, and as Briatte starts arguing with Sewif and Thorrin about the best way to cook ham, Faern elbows me.

“Nice roof-thing.”

“Thank you. It’s called a chandelier.”

“Briatte likes it too.”

“And…?”  
Faern elbows me. “When are you two getting together?”

I flush. “What are you _talking_ about?”

Faern bats her eyelashes, deepening her voice in an imitation of my own. “Oh, Briatte, you saved me! You’re so strong and cool and—”

I punch her arm before Briatte notices. I don’t really need to worry though; she’s laughing at something Sewif’s saying. “Shut up. Even if that _was_ true which it isn’t, she’s…” I gesture to the way Sewif and Briatte are now entirely ignoring Thorrin.

“What’s not true?”

Fiyr and Samn have just joined us with their food. It seems a little weird; I would expect them to be eating with Lady Faise and Sir Strommer and Cindra and those people, but I guess not everyone’s totally over my kidnapping. The queen’s not here at all, so I guess that frees Samn from her duties. Fiyr slides onto the bench next to me, all dressed up for the holiday and looking famished. I can’t share that enthusiasm—Sewif’s cooking, inedibly salty—but still, it’s nice to see him not so worried.

“Nothing,” I mutter and start shovelling ham into my mouth. And then spit it back out.

“Really—oh, Clowd, don’t do that,” Fiyr says, making a face. “If you don’t like it, have some of the beans.”

“I made those,” Briatte chimes in.

They’re much less painful-tasting, but the texture of beans makes me want to pull out my tongue. I settle for swirling my food around my plate like I’m Rhane confronted with something other than jam on bread. Fiyr sighs.

“So, Sewif, knight’s exams soon?” he asks.

Sewif frowns at him like he thinks it’s a trick question, then says, “Soon enough, I expect. I’ve been preparing, but Liang—Sir Teyl says he hasn’t heard from the queen yet.”

Every head turns to Samn. Samn makes a noncommittal noise. “We’ve been discussing it. You’ll hear eventually.” Sewif looks dissatisfied with that, but doesn’t argue.

I can’t resist the golden opportunity. “Fiyr, didn’t you say I could start my exams soon?”

Sewif’s expression isn’t one I’ll forget in a hurry. He looks like he swallowed a beehive.

“ _Some_ of them,” Fiyr corrects quickly, sensing Sewif’s incredulous anger. “You have a long way to go.”

“You said within two years,” I point out, eyes locked on Sewif.

“Possibly,” Fiyr adds. “Probably not, though. We have to talk about it.”

Still, I’ve gotten the reaction I want and I settle back into slowly turning my food into mush. Sewif is buzzing with annoyance but makes a concerted effort to ignore both of us. This is helped when his mom walks in, holding Sewif’s little brothers in each arm, prompting Cindra to stand from the other side of the dining hall and assist her in carrying one of the boys and finding a seat.

Silence ripples through the hall as we watch Lady Tiall sit carefully and put her white-haired baby in her lap. Sewif stands and leaves. I watch him go, waiting for the buzz of activity to resume, then remember what I was planning today.

“I’ll be right back,” I promise, pulling free of the bench, then hurry off to the squire’s wing.

It’s right where I left it, but just as I reach out to pick it up off my nightstand, I fumble and knock it into the space between it and the wall. The slim book slips out of sight and I curse, hauling the little wooden dresser forward so I can get it back. It’s remarkably dusty back there for a place that had fire tearing through it a half-year earlier. When I reach down to retrieve it, I realize the book is nestled on top of two pieces of paper, one small and thin, and the other thick and creamy-coloured. Expensive paper; I almost don’t recognize it. After a moment, I slip them into my pocket.

Sewif’s sitting with his mother and Cindra when I come back. Briatte looks like she’s debating joining them too. I waver for a second, and then walk back to the table with Samn, Fiyr, and Faern.

“Where’d you go?”

I poke Faern. “Nosy, aren’t you? I have a present for you, but maybe I won’t give it to you if you don’t mind your business.”

“I’m not nosy!” As I expected, she perks up at the promise of a present. “I’m just very concerned about my dear brother and what he does because I love him very much.”

I snort. “That makes me want to give it to you _less_.”

“You’re not meant to extort compliments from people to make them earn their presents,” Fiyr points out and we both ignore him.

“Then maybe I’ll give you mine first,” Faern says with a grin, and starts rummaging in her pockets.

I fully expected to be able to torment her for not getting me a present, and get suddenly flustered when she pulls out a little wooden pendant on a length of cord.

“What is it?”

Faern smiles like she’s not certain how I’m going to receive this, then passes it to me. “It’s, um, meant to ward off gods. The markings are for protection.”

I squint at it. “Looks like a bunch of squigglies to me.”

“It’s _not_ squigglies, it’s—”

“Oh, no, wait, there’s writing hidden in the designs,” I exclaim, peering down at the curves and swirls in the wood. Faern leans over me to inspect it too. “Uh, it says… _Faern is gullible and should not have paid money for this because it’s just a cheap necklace sold by a swindler_.”

“It does _not_.” She flicks me. “Don’t be a turd. Give me my present.”

“Nosy and pushy,” I remark, opening up the cord so I can hang it around my neck. It feels kind of cool; even if it is just wood, there’s a good weight to it and it’s a nice, deep shade of brown, intercut with the patterns of whatever poor tree died to make Faern lose a few coppers. And I guess I should be thankful for all the help I can get when it comes to warding off gods.

I remove the book from in my lap under the table and present it to her. “Here.”

She examines the cover; soft brown leather with a sheaf of wax paper inset. Between the sheets is a perfect piece of bracken, dried and preserved with its fronds all spread out like a wet feather. “Lovely.” Then she flips through it. “Uh. Speaking of getting ripped off. It’s blank.”  
I swat her. “It’s a notebook, you dunce.”

Faern laughs and closes the book again, tracing her thumb over the texture of the cover. “It’s really nice actually. Thank you. I have no idea what I’m meant to put in it, but thank you.”

“I don’t know!” I exclaim. “Notes? Doodles? Save it until you’re an elder so you can use it to write your romances.”

She pinks and slides the notebook onto the table. “We’ll see. Who’s that for?”

I look down and find myself gripping the two papers tight enough to crinkle the paper. “Uh… They’re not presents.” I stuff Layli’s note back into my pocket and look at my shakily-transcribed lullaby. The hall is quiet; I think in past years Lady Tiall would play a little music while we ate. Sir Wynnd always played the drums, I remember in a flash of sudden loss. Lady Tiall eats in silence, so the rest of us do too. I look up at them, Sewif and the babies and Lady Tiall’s creased temple and hard eyes and Cindra’s lowered look.

“Hm.”

And it’s stupid, and probably a bad idea, but I’m standing up and crossing the hall toward them without really thinking it through.

“Lady Tiall,” I say quietly, considering sitting and then deciding against it. Sewif must have left earlier to get them food. I look at him now, gauging how stone-faced he is surrounded by the court on holiday. “I… I found a piece of music, but I don’t know how it goes and I was wondering if you would… um, I don’t know if it’s possible, but play it?”

Cindra gives me an encouraging look. “That’s a lovely thought, Clowd.”

Sewif ignores me. Lady Tiall looks up, eyes narrowing on me like she’s focusing on a blurry picture. I fidget, trying to read her expression, then she gives me a fraction of a nod. “After the meal, maybe.”

I try not to sigh too obviously with relief that she didn’t bite my head off, then scurry back to sit with Faern.

When we all ‘finish eating’ (finish flattening our food into the worst stew ever), I almost think Lady Tiall’s forgotten my request. Samn doesn’t seem in a hurry to rope everyone into dancing, and the queen’s still not shown. But nonetheless, as people drift into clumps, clear tables, and refill cups, Lady Tiall comes to our table.

“Do you have the music?” she asks.

I pass it to her.

As she reads it over, standing in front of us with her back slightly hunched, strings of music begin from nowhere. Gentle chords, the kind that wouldn’t carry too far if you were singing at night. Simple enough, slow enough, but sweet and spreading like honey on bread.

And Lady Tiall begins to sing softly.

“Good morning, my dear. Good evening, my dear,” she rasps, her taxed voice turning to silver through her alchemy. “As long as I’m near, there’s nothing to fear.”

I smile a little, feeling a weirdly melancholy reaction to the music. I definitely had the melody wrong when I was wasting my days saying it under my breath in my father’s garden. Still, I’m safe now, and I can hear the music properly.

“In sunshine my darling. In snowfall my darling. I’ll hold you close. I’ll sing to you...” Her voice almost wavers, like a break in it is being automatically patched by her life-force, sweetening it impossibly into a heartwrenching dip in breath. “La, la, la.”

“La, la, la.” A lower voice joins her, both in pitch and volume, and when I turn, Fiyr’s frozen, his mouth just barely open as he joins Lady Tiall an octave lower. He knows the music before her life-force does.

“Close both your eyes,” Lady Tiall sings, gazing at Fiyr with a kind of centuries-old understanding in her eyes. “Dream of blue skies.”

“La, la, la,” Fiyr repeats, and opens his mouth to finish the verse. A sob catches in his throat, no music alchemy jumping in to save the notes. The tears gilding his pale lashes spill down his cheeks as Lady Tiall’s voice strengthens, rolling through each verse, the melody repeating over and over with new words as if to lull… lull a child to rest. Samn puts her arm around his shoulders as he waveringly joins Lady Tiall for the end.

“The fire burns down, the moon starts to rise.” Her voice is little more than a murmur now. Fiyr’s is soft and paper-thin. “Breathe slow and deep, and dream of blue skies.”

An unsteady sort of cry-sigh comes out of Fiyr as the music fades. The whole dining hall is silent. Fiyr sniffs and half-laughs, then asks, “Where’d you find that music, Clowd?”

“Where do you think?” I rasp, trying desperately to laugh off the emotion swimming in my chest. I look at Briatte, and that doesn’t help much. She’s smiling, moved by the music, and I look away again quickly, blinking hard.

Fiyr nods, still lost in memory. I think of Violetta, suddenly, with Layli’s note still burning a hole in my pocket. Did her mother sing to her? Does she miss her brothers? But what power do I have to change any of that? A song’s all well and good, but she’s still stuck working for my father and so are the rest of them. Are they still safe? What did my father do to the god-toys when I escaped? Did he think me asking about them and my escape were related? Dread slithers down my back. _How am I supposed to help them?_

_You and your kingdom are in a unique position to help us._

I look over at Samn, as she holds Fiyr to her chest while he cries, and notice the darker spots of where his tears have fallen on the cuff of her red tunic. Paired with the conspicuous absence of the queen, I’m left with one lingering feeling.

_Maybe_ I _can’t help them alone, but if anyone can, it’s Samn._

When the festivities have wound down and people begin to drift to bed, I catch Samn’s elbow as she moves to clear some of the last dishes.

“I—can I talk to you for a moment?”

She turns and cocks a brow. “Certainly. What do you need?”

Where do I start? “Um… maybe it’s better if I… show you.” I dig Layli’s letter out of my pocket.

As Samn scans the note, looking more confused than anything else, a strange feeling made of disappointment in myself and certainty that I’m finally doing the right thing drops in my stomach. _I was so eager to put it all behind me that I… I put it_ all _behind me. I left them there._ But I hold tight to my resolve and wait for Samn’s questions. _I’m not going leave them there any longer. Violetta, Layli, Mom… ’m goinIg to get you all out. Everyone should live freely, and it was selfish as shit to try to forget all of it. I shouldn’t have waited. But I’m not waiting anymore._

“What’s… _the truth_?” Samn asks, running a finger over the letters on the note, and then lower to the Mer mark. “And what does this mean?”  
“The truth is…” I pause. “Well, when I got kidnapped, I made a few friends, and now they need our help. My father—all the gods, the god-toys, they’re enslaved. They can’t leave. I need to find a way to help them, help them get free and get away from the gods and get their life-force back so they can live independently. And I know this is…” I swallow hard, seeing a look in Samn’s stare that I’ve seen way too many times. Weighing her options, and weighing the costs. “It’s too much to ask, to save every god-toy and probably bring the gods down on our heads, but I’ll do whatever it takes to get out of there. I know I’m not going to be enough, and I wouldn’t ask if… I just… They have to be free. Whatever it takes.”

Samn pauses, flame flickering in her eyes as she raises them to the roof of the newly rebuilt castle. She passes the note to her other hand and traces the spots where Fiyr’s tears have left marks in her sleeve, remembering the lullaby and his life before Thundria.

“Whatever it takes,” she echoes. It sounds like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew this one was also really frustrating to write ladjldslkdj I hope it’s alright. Anyway, right now I’m thinking the prologue for book 5 will be published when I’ve written 10 chapters (currently I’ve got 2)… So we’ll see how long that takes. I’m going to school full-time and also working part-time, so pretty much all my time for writing has evaporated. Please bear with me while I learn how to juggle my new schedule. In the meantime, come hang out at warriors-kingdoms dot tumblr dot com, or akitsune-lune!
> 
> ~Akila


	26. Chapter 25 - Samn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well, well, well, well, well.
> 
> At the beginning of 2020, I started publishing Into the Fire, which I started writing in 2016 at the tenderest age of 13. Now we find ourselves in March of 2021, with a seventeen-year-old piloting your aircraft and considerably fewer pre-written chapters.
> 
> I will be transparent! Less than three chapters of the next book have been written. It’s probably not going to be finished until next autumn at the earliest. The update schedule will be more spaced than the previous books have been, and eventually it’s likely I won’t be able to keep to it every time. As I talked about in the last chapter, I’m working and going to school, dealing with generally everything 2020-2021 has thrown at all of us, applying to universities and possibly moving out over the summer, so on. My time for fanfiction is limited and I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.
> 
> This series is still hugely important to me and I care a lot about all of you who have invested your time and energy into it, leaving comments or even just ghost-reading and getting something out of it, because you know fucking hell mates 2020 right?
> 
> Alright enough from me. See you again at the end of the chapter. Please enjoy this.

Chapter 25 - Samn Schorme

I have a plan, and it hinges on three things.

The first is being beloved by Thundria. The next is complete peace from the other kingdoms. And the third is solving an impossible problem.

So just another day as captain.

I’m up in the north tower again, because it’s isolated and the air is clear and fresh enough for me to think. It’s also fucking freezing, but I’m bundled up enough that the chill only stiffens my fingers around my quill. I’d like to be as close to the Starlaxi as possible in case they want to help me out with any of this. So far, I’ve gotten nothing from the gray skies.

As a general rule, I think I shouldn’t promise things. I was careful not to promise Sewif his knight’s exams at any concrete date—the queen hasn’t even mentioned them and in the fallout of the fire, Sir Wynnd’s death, and every other storm we’ve weathered, it seemed at the bottom of my priorities. Still, days after Snowstar’s Eve my promise to Clowd is ringing loud in my ears.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, Samn,_ my captain voice repeats, a refrain it has taken to.

I still don’t know if it’s right about me or not.

A promise to find a way to free the god-toys, _whatever it takes._ That should be madness; outside of the realm of consideration.

I worry that it’ll take everything. The only question is whether it’ll be worth it, and remembering Fiyr’s face, so nakedly vulnerable and touched by the music Clowd found, another part of myself is repeating, _It is. It is._

Whether it’s worth trying is one question. Whether it’s _possible_ is another entirely. I’m in no hurry to forget the earth blasting apart under Dune’s hooves, the whine of the air as arrows of sparkling death whistled toward us, the sky-breaking roar of the god as we escaped. Cindra’s infirmity and death-like pallor when the corruption was blocking her life-force. Sir Cawle stalking the shadows of our territory like a bird of prey, ready to pick us off one by one if I let myself slip for an instant.

I simply need to discover a cure for spirit-clipping, convince the court to risk their lives in warfare against the gods, and not get into any kind of trouble with the other kingdoms that might detract from the mission. Easy.  
“Samn? I found them. Do you want me to bring them out there?” It’s Clowd, hovering nervously in the doorway out onto the balcony.

I think I’m starting to lose feeling in my fingers. I look up at the overcast sky and wait to see if a spirit descends to hand me answers. The wind whistles through the trees, but if that’s a message I don’t know what it means. “Let’s go back inside. We can take it to the library.”

Thundria’s books were decimated by the fire, but for whatever reason, Clowd personally saved all our records on gods and spirit-clipping. Maybe that would have made me irrationally suspicious and uncomfortable a year ago, but now I’m just thankful.

“Right. Let’s see.”

We sit at one of the new cherrywood desks and I spread out the documents, journals, and dog-eared pages.

“Am I correct in guessing that you’ve read through most of this?”

Clowd swallows and nods. “There’s no… no definitive answer. But…” He gestures to the oldest paper, sun-bleached and soft as velvet around the edges from years of preservation. “That’s the closest. It’s old, and hard to understand, but it says there might’ve been something… a long time ago.”

_Helpful._ But I keep that to myself and gently slide the paper off the desk and into my hands. As he warned, the language is finicky; Old Thundrian, common, and the ancient language of the maiorum blending together in a sort of slurry of backtracking and synonyms.

The beginning is almost unparsably bizarre. It reads like a poem from the perspective of a hallucinating bird, detailing its flight through feverish imaginings and ultimately catching an updraft far into the sky, disappearing into ‘the soaring infinity.’ Farther down, a short, cramped paragraph explaining what a god-toy is.

Then I reach the bit I’m assuming Clowd was referring to. I take it word by word, transcribing it onto a fresh page in common.

_Were you to take upon the suffering and bring it down on the heads of your people to cave the sky in on those free to bring freedom to those kept. To drink fire and forge anew in a fresh airless world._

“A fresh airless world,” Clowd echoes, reading over my shoulder. “Er… shall I get us some tea?”

Fiyr’s gone on a run to Sun Rocks, or I’d have him get Clowd out of my hair. Still, the tea excuse is as good as any. I wave off the squire and keep poring over the mystifying wording.

_The mortal breath halts and its place usurped by a natural power._

It’s tempting to snap my quill. _What… the… fuck… does this mean?!_

Below the exact translation, I start scribbling my interpretation. _If you take the suffering and put it to your people, you cave in the sky on your free people to free god-toys._ I freeze, a blot of ink dotting the end of the sentence like the last handful of dirt on a grave. The structure is nonsense, and at any point of translation I could have a missed a key bit of information, but it sounds like…

It sounds like a warning.

_Whatever it takes._

The next part is as close to a description of a cure I think I’m going to get.

_To die and be reborn in a new world._

The afterlife? Is this about the Starlaxi? Is it saying that the only way for god-toys to be free is if they’re killed? Or is there another meaning to ‘drink fire?’ Some kind of burning alcohol? The only person that I know who could drink fire and not instantly die is…

_Fiyr._ I pause, set down my quill, then fix my gaze on a blank part of the page and start thinking. _I know one god-toy who didn’t need to die to achieve freedom. He has life-force. He’s still alive after years of distance from the gods. I_ know _there’s a way to help the god-toys, because Fiyr is living proof._

I look back at the first document, with all its impossible language-switching and unreadable script. _Fuego_ is the word they use; drinking _fuego._

_Solo el fuego._

Is it possible the prophecy was about Fiyr freeing the _god-toys_? Going toe-to-toe with the gods certainly doesn’t sound like the best way to _save_ Thundria, and I wouldn’t think to describe the god-toys as ‘our kingdom,’ but I can’t rule anything out definitively. _Only fire. Drinking fire. Only Fiyr could drink fire and not die. But surely it doesn’t mean literally; I guess it wouldn’t come up in casual conversation if he inhaled his own life-force as a child, but still, does it literally mean to drink?_

I study the word again for ‘drink.’ _Imbibe? Absorb? Consume?_ Unless fire is a metaphor of some kind. I thought it meant death, but it would be a massive coincidence if the only god-toy confirmed to escape the gods and survive was one with fire elementalism, and the only surviving record of curing spirit-clipping recommends ‘drinking fire.’ I wish Lady Fennen was here. She’d say something about the ridiculousness of Old Thundrian, and then point out something I’m missing. Cindra’s busy, but I know she would be helpful too. I’ll go to her as soon as I hit a deadend here.

“Samn?”

“Huh?”

Clowd’s returned with the tea. I accept it with a word of thanks.

“Oh, that’s…” Clowd blinks at the page.

“I know,” I sigh, picking up my quill to take another crack at the mysteries in front of me.

“No, that’s the ancient words for life-force. I didn’t realize, but Sir Tyle… that’s what the maiorum called their power,” Clowd says, then smiles, embarrassed. “I listened to a lot of those stories.”

I blink, searching for the bit he’s mentioning. “‘The mortal breath halts and its place usurped by…’ life-force.”

“What does usurped mean?”

“To take something over by force.” I grimace. “What Sir Cawle tried to do Thundria.”

Clowd raises an eyebrow. “So um… the ‘mortal breath’ gets replaced by life-force?”

“Or immortal breath. I can’t tell.” I squint. “But paired with the bit about drinking fire, it makes me think… the process for undoing spirit-clipping involved nearly dying.”

“Like cauterization.”

I laugh. “You know the word ‘cauterization’ and not ‘usurped?’”

Clowd blushes. “It’s… it’s what Cindra did to Lady Fyrra’s hand. She explained to me how everyone’s life-force can be used to heal, and how she thought her elementalism was destructive and couldn’t really help, but then…” He shrugs. “You can stop bleeding and prevent infection.”

_A destructive power being used for healing. Drinking fire to be reborn in freedom. Your breathing stopping as life-force takes back over your body._

Somehow, I suspect suggesting to Fiyr that we try killing the god-toys to let the life-force back into their body will be met with a bit of resistance. I can’t get over the feeling that there’s something more to it than simply suffering, like there’s a key that I just can’t find that will unlock all of this. _But what are we supposed to do? Start chopping off hands and cauterizing them to see if the god-toys suddenly regain their life-force? Cindra fell to the brink of death when she was hit by the soul, and that certainly didn’t let her life-force back into her body; the opposite._

A growl is building in my throat. I sip the tea, fold up my shoddy translations, and start stacking everything back up. “Well. Thank you, Clowd. I think… I’m at least getting an idea of where to start looking.”

“You should consult Cindra,” he suggests. “Especially if you think it’s fire-related. And Fiyr. They’ll want to help.”

At the moment, I want to keep the news that I’m going to try to take on all the gods in the area under wraps to prevent widespread panic, but I nod anyway. “I will. Thank you. It’s very brave of you to take up the cause like this.”

Clowd flushes again. “I just… I have to.”

I nod again, and think of his mother, the awkward meeting and our shared love for Fiyr. If we could find a cure… she could join Thundria. She could be part of my family. I don’t want to bring it up to Fiyr, just in case this goes horribly wrong, but he’s probably already thought of it.

A knock sounds at the door of the library. I open it to reveal Sir Strommer, looking a little apprehensive.

“Er, Samn, just the person I wanted to see. It’s… it’s almost sunset, isn’t it?” he remarks.

I blink at him. Then I swear. “The solstice is tonight.”

He laughs, but it’s more than a bit uncomfortable. “I wondered if you might have forgotten. I can help Clowd put his textbooks away, you go talk to the queen about who’s attending.”

I don’t bother correcting him on the textbooks thing. _The news will be everywhere soon enough._ I may as well resign myself to some rumours flying about what I’m planning. “Right. Thank you.”  
It’s genuine. I think back to my short list of people I can unconditionally trust. I’d like to expand it, one of these days. I know one person who I won’t be adding it to. She’s waiting for me when I enter after a gentle knock, standing in a corner of the room and watching a brazier’s light play over the stone.

“Your Majesty.” I bow.

She’s silent. I regard her carefully, evaluating today’s state. She seems… dissociative, like she’s looking straight through me.

“The Gathering is tonight,” I remind her. “Have you made a list of attendees?” _No,_ is what the answer will be, I already know.

She continues to look through me without a word, then finally says in a soft, steady voice, “I won’t be attending.”

Anger, confusion, and resigned exhaustion rock me at once, a potent combination that I’ve become innoculated to by years of the same treatment. Still, she’s never taken it here. “What?”

“You will lead the court,” she says simply. “Show them, Samn.”

With a deep breath and a clench-unclench of my fists, I answer, “We will show ourselves weak if you do not attend.”

The queen makes a scornful face, then turns away from me to inspect the wall. “Then we are weak. What of it? Do you expect the old men to pick over our bones? Everyone is weak. We are all so very, very breakable.”

I’m abruptly reminded of the nonsense wording of the spirit-clipping document. But this is _wrong_. And there’s nothing I can do. “Then I’ll make the list.”

There’s nothing else to say to her. I just wait to see if she’ll turn, and when she doesn’t, I leave her chambers. I’m angry with myself, more than anything, for even thinking that things might ever improve instead of steadily rotting. _She won’t attend Gatherings. She won’t speak to the court. She won’t speak with the Starlaxi. She is going to let us go, and I have to get ready to catch Thundria before we hit the ground._ I know it’s true—it’s been proved to me a hundred times over—and I still can’t believe it.

Sir Strommer is leaving the library, laughing with Clowd about something, and I latch onto it with the desperation of a man about to go under the waves. _But not alone._

“Sir Strommer.” I cross the throne room to him, pulling him from Clowd’s side. _Then we are weak. She doesn’t care at all if the court knows of her condition, so why should I? If I’m meant to rally them into battle against the gods, showing them that I’m their leader would be a good start._ “Can I request your help with putting together the Gathering list? The queen is unwell and I will be leading us tonight.”

His eyes widen, but he takes it well enough. “I see! I didn’t know she was sick.”

_Yes, you did. Everyone knows, but no one will say it._

“But, of course. Shall we go to the library?”

Within the hour, I’m holding my first official meeting. I return to the queen’s chambers—she’s retreated to her bed, disappeared but for quiet breathing and the rustling of pages as she burns through more of our paper—and find the amulet to call the court. I don’t even know how to use it, but still, I enstate myself on the dais with a confidence I don’t feel, hold it to my lips, and say,

“Let all of the court that have demonstrated their life-force gather for a court meeting!”

I suspect everyone gathers a bit quicker to find out why it’s my voice and not the queen’s that’s echoing through the castle. I ignore that for a moment, once the sea of faces is amassed in front of me, instead afixing my gaze to Fiyr, then Cindra, then Duss, and say,

“As some of you know, the queen is unwell and cannot attend the Gathering tonight. For that reason, I will be acting leader for the night.” Nobody yells protest, at least. I swallow and continue. “And I’ll be accompanied by the following. Lady Plait, Sir Fere, Lady Fuor, Sir Peyelt, Sir Harte, Sir Strommer, Clowd, Sewif, and Briatte.”

Now there’s protest from Liang, Thorrin, Darriek, and others, but I don’t entertain it. Channelling a bit of my mother and a bit of the queen before… everything… I stare them down until the outbursts die.

“We will depart as soon as everyone is ready. If you haven’t already eaten, do so.” Then I turn on my heel and replace the amulet in the queen’s chambers. I know what they’re saying; the patrol is small, I’m playing favourites, we’re not projecting strength, we need more people to make up for the queen’s absence, but I just don’t have the patience today.

_I need to get through this Gathering without a hitch,_ I think. It feels like swimming against the current. _I need to convince the court to stand behind me when I cave the sky in on them. I need peace in every other area so we can focus on this impossible task. I can’t afford any distractions._

Always easier said than done.

Still, I prepare like I’m riding into battle. I’m certainly not going to try to look like a queen, but I can be the perfect picture of an unflinching captain stepping in for an only-temporarily-out-of-commission monarch. I find myself back in my room, looking in the mirror at the person on the other side. My hair is still damp enough I’m going to be crowned with ice by the time we reach the pavilion. Still, there’s a resoluteness in my own face that I’m clinging to.

_We’re going to survive this, and come out stronger than ever. We are_ not _weak, we are strong enough to change things for the god-toys and for our own kingdom. We will take whatever comes and we will fight back._

I remember my Union.

_Will they judge me? What do they see when they look at me?_

The boxy jaw that twitches when I chew on the inside of my cheek, the straight Thundrian nose that any child of Fiyr’s and I may not share, the sun speckles that fade into the brown of my skin, the pale eyes set with determination.

_Show them,_ the queen said. They’ll see what I show them.

So I get ready. I brush back my hair because I’m poised, and I pick invisible lint off my tunic because they need to see the red that I fought to keep, and I layer furs over my shoulders so I look twice as broad and I don’t shiver. Maybe a small patrol of people I trust isn’t the best way to project boatloads of strength, but I’ll be damned if Thundria looks weak tonight.

I collect my patrol as the scarlet sunset streaks the sky.

Wynnd and Rivier are already there when we reach the pavilion, the pillars stark against the sky and the air humming with their chatter. Shodawa is still missing. I am grateful for it, if anything; one less thing to balance. The longer they stay mired in confusion and weakness, the better we’ll be for it.

I scale the platform, gloves locking around the rungs and the muscles I’ve been using since squirehood hauling me up to stand with the two kings. Despite the bulk of my furs, I feel skinny and impossibly small next to King Crukkedaro.

“Your Highnesses,” I greet them, thankful that my voice comes out low and steady.

“Lady Schorme.” King Tahliorius’s dark brows flicker up in surprise at my presence and the lack of the queen’s.

Rivier’s king says nothing.

“The queen has taken ill,” I say. “I will serve while she is recovering.”

“Nothing serious, I expect.” The Wynnder king’s grin is almost conspiratorial, as if it’s a shared joke that I would lie about our monarch’s condition. It’s easy to forget how old he is, with his congenial manner and iron posture. I shouldn’t underestimate their strength. I give him a blank smile.

“Of course.”

Still, I’m glad they don’t seem at all hostile. Perhaps we’re finally putting the Broken King behind us. I look out at the mass of knights, feeling suddenly dizzy at the idea of speaking to all of them. _More than a responsibility,_ I realize, _more than a chance for them to spot our weakness, I have an opportunity now. This is power. I could finally warn the other kingdoms about Sir Cawle, tell them the truth about why he was exiled. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about him getting a foothold in any of the courts._

I look down at Lady Fore, who is searching the crowds with an anxiety I don’t recognize, as if she’s looking for someone. _Better not be Sir Cawle. But what if they link the queen’s absence to Sir Cawle’s exile? Could they figure out that the queen’s not merely sick? Would the truth expose weakness?_

King Crukkedaro seems similarly checked out to Queen Bluelianna. He might be in attendance, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Fore had been the one to arrange their list. The star in his forehead is dull, edges blurring into the sweaty paleness of his skin. I wonder how many Blessings he has left. I’d be surprised if King Tahliorius had many more than the Rivien king, simply on account of their ages, but King Tahl seems leagues more alive than King Crukkedaro.

“Is it worth waiting for Shodawa?” I ask, forcing a tone of idle boredom. My stomach writhes with nerves.

“Funny to be in attendance with them missing,” King Tahliorius remarks. I give him an odd look; this isn’t the first Gathering where we’ve lacked Shodawa. He smiles again, almost self-effacingly. “You recall a Gathering where _we_ weren’t present, don’t you? Two decades ago, now?”

“Almost,” I agree slowly. Why is he bringing up a time when Wynnd was indebted to Thundria?

“And I see Sir Harte is in attendance tonight. Your husband? Yes. Thundria has always been a friend of ours,” King Tahliorius says. That’s a blatant lie, and the edge of his mouth tugs wryly as if to acknowledge it. “I see you at the head of a new era for your kingdom, Lady Schorme.”  
My mouth dries a little at his words. He knows the queen’s time is running out. But to concentrate on my future leadership and not our imminent period of transition… I squint at him. Is it possible he’s making a genuine offering of peace?

“I don’t wish your court harm,” he says. “Quite the opposite. Times are difficult and we will be better off as allies.”

I dart a look at King Crukkedaro, trying to gauge his reaction to his equal’s words, but he’s not even listening to us. Lady Fore probably is. I look down into the darkness at the base of the platform, where she stands with Wynnd’s deputy. Sir Futt has always been honourable. I cast one last suspicious look at King Tahliorius, then slowly nod. I can trust them, at least a little. At least for now.

“Very well. I prefer peace to war,” I say, and he laughs even though it wasn’t a joke.

“You’re a good omen for Thundria,” he says, and turns back to the pavilion. “Well then, shall we…”

And trails off.

Shodawa has arrived.

Their trace is brighter than I’ve felt it in a year or more; no longer clogged with sickness. Med Naos is leading them, no clear monarch at their helm and no sign of King Naitienne nor Sir Faer, and his cheeks are so fever-bright that for a moment I wonder if they’ve just found a way to disguise their trace and they’re actually all still on the brink of death. Most of them are so shrouded in cloaks that I can hardly tell they’re human. It’s a disconcerting sight, the way they sweep through the crowd, more and more of them. Med Naos positions himself under the platform, close enough for me to see the way his eyes are glowing in the moonlight.

_He keeps talking about some new beginning for Shodawa, about rising from the ashes._ Weith’s words from another lifetime come back to me.

_And now he’ll never see that new beginning._ Stone-cold dread locks me in place.

Med Naos certainly looks like a fanatic, wild-eyed and nearly thrumming with anticipation of something.

Cindra is speaking to him now, telling him of Lady Fennen’s death and the news from Thundria. Both Med Feas and Med Frer are keeping their distances from the man, and my instinct is to warn Cindra to do the same.

The ranks of Shodawa are swelling still, the last of them trickling onto the pavilion. I wait for Med Naos to climb the platform. He doesn’t, but he raises his voice, interrupting Cindra mid-sentence, to shout,

“Shodawa, Rivier, Thundria, Wynnd! A year ago, I received a message from our ancestors!”

“What…” King Tahliorius mutters.

Med Naos continues, despite how few people can hear or see him, gesticulating in a frenzy. “I was shown the flight of a phoenix across our night sky. Shodawa’s blaze of glory, and our saviour. Our new beginning.”

_Forged anew._ And now I’m thinking of the words on the paper Clowd gave me. Thrust to the brink of death before liberation.

“I have found the Phoenix of Shodawa and we have crowned him,” Med Naos finishes, his eyes ablaze with conviction as they search through the crowd of cloaked Shodawes people. “Now we rise from the ashes. Your Majesty.”

And he bows deeply to the man stepping out of the crowd, broader and taller than his court, hidden by his black hood, showing only one eye, glittering amber-bright in the moonlight. He reaches up to slip it off his head. A star, white as the gleam of bone in a festering wound. A crown, molten gold in the darkness of the pavilion.

The Phoenix of Shodawa is Tigre Cawle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW. Waning Moon is done. I hope you enjoyed the ride, I hope you enjoyed Clowd, and I hope you’re enjoying getting back into Samn.
> 
> Book 5, A Starless World, the AU of A Dangerous Path, will be published when I have 10 chapters pre-written. I don’t have an estimate for when that will be, but you can keep up with my status on warriors-kingdoms dot tumblr dot com. I will also be putting up teasers, a summary, and all that good stuff. It will be alternating perspectives between Samn and Bluelianna as they grapple with the aftershocks of everything that’s happened this book and everything that gets thrown at them next book.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to each and every one of you, for continuing to support my little project! And as always as always, please leave me a little comment on your way out! Meet back here when I’ve got some work to show, and we’ll launch right into Book 5.
> 
> Thanks, everyone.
> 
> ~Akila


End file.
